


A Dwarf's Pride

by TrueRed



Series: There Lived a Hobbit [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Thranduil wants revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueRed/pseuds/TrueRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Long story short, master burglar,” Dwalin growled out, “it’s almost as if they raped Thorin in front of us.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Elvenking

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but a great respect for Tolkien.
> 
> Here's my take on what would have happened if Thranduil had sought revenge on Thorin when the Dwarves were brought to his palace.  
> Mix of book and movie verse, I even borrowed some lines from the second movie.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, I certainly did!

**A Dwarf’s Pride**

**Chapter 1  
** The Elvenking

 

There were no shackles, and no ropes, but the dwarves were very aware that, were they to try and escape, there would instantly be a significant amount of arrows pointing their way, and quite possibly an even greater number of them running through their arms and legs.

Not that any of them was thinking about running away, anyway; some of them, such as Bofur and Balin, were still suffering from the spider venom. As for the others, the violent tussle with the eight-legged abominations had drained whatever energy they had left. They were all struggling to keep up with the elves’ long legs through the forest, and an unfriendly shove awaited those who happened to stumble over roots and rocks.

Thorin was probably given the hardest time in the group. Each of his arms was firmly held by an elf, and they were walking at such a brisk pace that he swore his heavy boots left the ground once or twice. It was highly unpleasant, and the inability to quench the urge to wipe the remaining spider webs from his eyes  wasn’t helping. His dark mane was damp and some strands were glued to his nape in a sticky mess; if the violent pounding at the back of his skull was any indication, his head was bleeding from somewhere.

Kili’s weary voice came from behind Thorin in a panicked whisper. “Uncle, where are they taking us?”

Immediately followed by a whacking sound and a very dwarvish grunt. “Be silent, dwarf. Where we are taking you is of no concern to you.”

The fact that Kili didn’t bite back any smart comment spoke volumes about the young dwarf’s exhausted state. The dwarven king felt worry over his nephew’s health swell in his chest and, not for the first time since leaving Ered Luin, wondered just why he had allowed his sister’s sons to accompany him on this quest. Should all three of them fall, the line of Durin would forever fade to nothing.

They walked for what seemed like days, but were probably no more than a couple hours. Long enough, though, for Bombur to faint and end up being half-dragged, half-carried by three elves – whom, to Thorin’s satisfaction, were turning quite red in the face from the huge dwarf’s weight. And long enough as well for the dwarven king to notice his company was missing its burglar. The light-footed hobbit was nowhere to be seen, and while Thorin knew he had his own fate to worry about, he couldn’t help but wish Bilbo hadn’t been killed by the spiders.

Though Thorin had made it clear to Gandalf that he would not go out of his way to ensure Bilbo’s safety, he was beginning to doubt his own words. Far from being the burden the dwarven king initially thought he would be, the hobbit had proven not only that he was able to take care of himself, but that he could be of great help to the company. Ever since that fight with Azog, ever since Bilbo put himself between Thorin and certain death, the black-haired dwarf found himself caring more about the hobbit’s well-being than before. He made sure to always have the smaller fellow in his eyesight, be it while walking, during dinner or before sleep. He was, after all, the leader of the company, and looking after its members was something to be expected of him.

_Let us hope he is only following us from afar, hidden in the shadows,_ Thorin thought to himself before a particularly nasty pull on his arms drew a low growl from his throat.

His musings about Bilbo were interrupted when they came to a very high and carved door, befitting of a palace, which Thorin instantly recoiled from. Pieces of the puzzle were finally clicking into place in his mind; the blond-haired elves, south of Greenwood, the one that the others had called “Legolas”… they were being taken to the foulest, the most detestable elf king known to Middle-Earth.

King Thranduil.

Thorin’s step back earned him a harsh tug on his worn-out arms and a swift hit to the back of the skull, which made his already throbbing head spin and almost wrenched a pained grunt from his lips. But he bit his tongue and walked through the doors as they opened, if only to get the whole company inside and away from the vile beasts in the forest.

Once they were all inside the palace, the heavy doors closed behind them and mild darkness engulfed them. Instinctively, the dwarves stepped closer to one another, seeking reassurance in their kin’s proximity, and Thorin soon felt Kili’s shoulder digging into his back. He couldn’t blame his young nephew, really. When the elves released his arms and went to speak to a few guards, Thorin reached back and gave Kili’s elbow – or what felt like his elbow – a comforting pat.

“Where in Mahal’s name are we?” Bofur whispered from somewhere to the left.

“Those are the elves of Mirkwood, the ones Gandalf told us about, I reckon,” Balin said from the back of the group. “They are probably taking us to their leader.”

Before Thorin could tell the others that Balin was right, they were once again searched by the elves, but this time they were divested of each and every piece of armor they owned. After a lot of weak but indignant cries of protest, the dwarves were left in their dirty shirts and dingy breeches, and watched on sadly as their weapons and their supplies were taken away by elven guards.

They were left to wait in the dark hall, huddled together like frightened cattle on a stormy night. Thorin could hear his companions whispering behind his back, he could feel their pain and their frustration. He wanted nothing more than to punch their elven guardians in their hairless, unblemished faces and barrel through the main gates to freedom. But he felt so powerless…

As his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light, he recognized the elf called Legolas coming through a door on the left side of the hall. He hadn’t even seen the blond-haired menace leave.

Legolas strode purposefully over to his kin and blabbered some elvish words which meaning were lost to Thorin, but seemed to surprise the others. A heated conversation followed, and although the dwarven king strained his ears and dug deep into his memories for any elvish vocabulary he might possess, he understood none of it.

His lack of control angered him and when Legolas approached him, he crossed his arms in a defiant posture. “Are we to even know what you intend to do with us, or are you not brave enough to speak a language we can understand?” he growled fiercely.

Muffled noises of approval echoed from the company of dwarves as Legolas’ eyes narrowed dangerously. “If you must know, dwarf, my father wishes to speak with you.” His cold gaze ran over the rest of the group. “All of you. Get moving.”

It took a few shoves but the dwarves started walking again. They left the hall and travelled deeper into the palace, led by half a dozen elven guards.

The entire structure looked like it had been carved inside an enormous tree, yet the walls were for the most part made of rock. Small bridges criss-crossed over abysmal depths and allowed them to go from one room to another. The dwarves may have been weary and frustrated, yet most of them were awed by the palace’s beautiful conception. Ori was even outwardly gawking at the otherworldly lanterns hanging down from the high ceiling, shining soft white light upon them.

If Thorin found the palace interesting, he never let it show. No, his blue eyes were trained ahead, searching for their destination, until they fell on a very large, very high wooden seat with giant antlers sitting on top. And a face he had last seen staring down at him from the top of a hill, as a dragon reduced a dwarven kingdom to ashes.

A face he would have been glad not to see for another century.

 

* * *

 

 

Although he knew fairly well that he couldn’t be seen, Bilbo took extra care not to touch anything or anyone as he followed the dwarves deep into the palace. He nervously fingered his ring as he stalked the company, hoping his padded feet weren’t making any noise. If the loud ruckus made by the dwarven boots was any indication, sounds had a tendency to bounce off every wall, making a burglar’s job ten times harder.

Bilbo’s poor hobbit heart ached as he studied his dwarven companions – _friends_ , he reminded himself, _I’m fooling myself if I think they are any less than that, now._ While Bombur had regained some of his balance, it was now Fili’s turn to have treacherous legs. Indeed the blond-haired prince staggered from left to right and was all but leaning on his younger brother. Bilbo remembered Kili being stung by a large spider with green patterns adorning its abdomen, before Dwalin punched its horrible head off.

Bofur’s beaming grin was nowhere to be seen, and Bifur’s mad gibberish remained in check. Even Dwalin’s shoulders were slumped, a posture which was completely unbecoming of the great warrior. Gloin was holding his older brother’s arm to keep him from slipping and plummeting down to the palace’s depths, and Oin kept half-heartedly telling him he was fine while swatting at him weakly. Balin, his white beard wrapped up in dirty spider webs, was panting heavily, and his old legs were visibly shaking even from where Bilbo was standing. The hobbit noticed that, thankfully, the elf walking beside Balin didn’t shove the old dwarf or bark at him to hurry up. Quite the contrary, as the elven guard’s hand shot up a few times to steady Balin when he almost tripped.

As for Nori, Dori and Ori, they looked like they were in good shape, given the circumstances. All three brothers were staring around them in wonder and Bilbo had no trouble at all deciphering their respective thoughts. Dori was probably estimating the time it took to build the high pillars supporting the palace, and how many elves had taken part in it. Ori, judging by the crestfallen expression that overpowered his features every now and then, was more than likely mourning the loss of his sketchbook, for nobody back in Ered Luin would believe him should he try to describe the palace to his friends. And Nori, well… the thief’s eyes were restlessly darting back and forth, from the elves’ golden brooches to the silver lanterns. An open book.

Eventually, Bilbo’s eyes rested upon Thorin, who was leading the way. The hobbit cringed at the blood coating the back of the dwarf’s shirt; there must be a wound somewhere in that dark mass of hair. Still, the rightful king of Erebor walked with his head held high, his chest puffed up with pride as if he was standing victorious on a battlefield in full armor, and not being held prisoner in nothing but a worn-out shirt.

Bilbo had to give him that; Thorin was a stubborn, brooding kind of a king, but a king no less. And when the dwarf came to stop, his blue eyes were glaring ahead defiantly, an unspoken challenge palpable in the cobalt orbs.

_Stop? Why did he stop?_

Bilbo was so engrossed in his observations that he hadn’t noticed the group had come to a halt, and that he was well on his way to collide with the elf bringing up the rear. His eyes widened and he brutally stopped walking, thus avoiding a disaster.

_Bilbo Baggins! You are the only hope this company has left, don’t you dare mess it up!_

Willing his knees to stop shaking from the dreadful mistake he had almost made, Bilbo looked up to see what had caused the dwarves to stop walking, and his breath was stolen away.

Atop the sumptuous throne, all draped in silver-lined white robes, sat the most beautiful elf Bilbo had ever seen. A pair of icy blue eyes was staring calmly down at the company of dwarves from an unmarred face, and though the elf’s golden hair looked impossibly long, it was neatly tucked behind finely-shaped ears by a crown of berries and autumn leaves weaved together. Flawless hands were softly stroking an oaken staff, silver and pearl rings shining as they caught light from the lanterns above.

_The Elvenking._

“Thorin Oakenshield.”

There was some agitation as Thorin was pulled from the group to stand alone in front of the Sindar, and the rest of the dwarves were made to wait a respectable distance away from the throne. Bilbo debated whether or not he should try to get closer, but a patrol of elves coming from behind him stole the decision from his hands. Quiet as a mouse, the hobbit clambered over rocks until he was crouching on a boulder, his back resting against a pillar, midway between the dwarves and the throne.

Softly sighing in relief, Bilbo then strained his ears and listened to the conversation going on between Thorin and the Elvenking.

The elf had risen from his seat, leaving his wooden staff behind to circle the dwarf, much like a wolf would a sheep. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon, Thorin, son of Thrain,” the Firstborn said, and his voice was like velvet to Bilbo’s ears. It was hard to think of this beautiful being as an enemy, but Bilbo’s loyalty to Thorin could not be swayed so easily.

So when the dwarven king’s shoulders tensed and his arms crossed, Bilbo knew he had to be wary of the Elvenking.

“You speak as though you knew we were coming,” Thorin said, refusing to follow the elf’s movements with his eyes as the Sindar walked around him.

“Indeed.” The Elvenking held his arms behind his back as he paced, his blue eyes almost amused as they travelled from Thorin to his twelve companions. “I knew there would be a time when we would meet again, Thorin Oakenshield. I know all about your purpose here.”

Thorin snorted, a sound Bilbo had long acknowledged was the equivalent of a mocking laugh coming from the dwarf. “I do not believe you, elf.”

But the Elvenking ignored him, choosing instead to stare at the immensity of his palace as he resumed talking. “Some may imagine that a noble quest in at hand. A quest to reclaim a homeland… and slay a dragon.”

The golden-haired Sindar chuckled under his breath and Bilbo saw Thorin’s eyes widen for half a second before the dwarf’s customary scowl settled back on his features. Behind the hobbit, the other dwarves were whispering among themselves, surprised that the Elvenking knew of their quest.

“I, myself, suspect a more prosaic motive. Attempted burglary, or something of that ilk.” The slender elf leaned in and for the first time met Thorin’s eyes, seeking surprise and bewilderment in the cobalt pools. But when he found nothing but defiance and pride, the Elvenking frowned slightly and once more stood tall, looking down at Thorin with contempt.

When he spoke again, his voice had lost its silky edge, and Bilbo instantly found him less enchanting. “You have found a way in. You seek that which would bestow upon you the right to rule. A King’s jewel.”

“The Arkenstone,” Bilbo whispered as the elf said it out loud.

It was a good thing Thorin had steeled himself, for the King of the Woodland Realm’s next words would have caught him off guard. “It is precious to you beyond measure. I understand that.”

The elf stopped walking to stand before his throne as Thorin blinked and visibly tried to decipher the words that had just been uttered. With a soft smile, the elf pursued. “There are gems in the mountain that I too desire. White gems of pure starlight. Which is why I offer you my help.”

Understanding dawned on Thorin’s face as the Elvenking finally revealed himself. He smiled then, what Bilbo really hoped was a sincere smile, should the mocking edges of the dwarven king’s mouth pass unseen.

“I am listening,” Thorin finally said in his deep, baritone voice, which sent Bilbo’s hopes even higher.

“I will let you go, if you but return what is mine.”

_Fair enough. If the gems were his to begin with, parting with them shouldn’t be that much of a bother to Thorin._

But it was the black-haired dwarf’s turn to pace, turning his back to the King as he swept his eyes over the throne room. “A favor for a favor, then,” he pondered out loud.

“You have my word. One King to another,” the Sindar nodded.

It wasn’t going to be as hard as Bilbo thought it would be, getting the dwarves out of the palace. The hobbit almost giggled with glee; soon their weapons would be returned and they would be on their way again. Surely a few gems meant nothing in comparison to the endless riches of Erebor the company had spoken about.

But then Thorin chuckled darkly, and Bilbo’s smile faltered.

“I would not trust Thranduil, the Great King, to honor his word, should the end of all days be upon us!” By the end of his sentence, the dwarf warrior was shouting, and he whirled around to face a very surprised Elvenking. “You lack all honor! I have seen how you treat your friend! We came to you once, starving, homeless, seeking your help. But you turned your back!” With his teeth bared, Thorin was more warg than dwarf to Bilbo. “You turned away from the suffering of my people and the inferno that destroyed us!”

There was a pause as Thranduil was left speechless, but Thorin wasn’t quite finished. “ _Imrid amrad ursul!_ ”

There were anguished cries from the other dwarves at this, and Bilbo tried to remember Khuzdul lessons given to him by Bofur to understand Bifur. There was something about death, and flames… whatever it was, it didn’t sound very nice at all.

Thranduil, as for him, probably understood Khuzdul for he strode up to Thorin with an angry snarl on his perfect features. “Do not speak to me of dragon fire! I know its wrath and ruin.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened in surprise and it was all he could do not to gasp out loud when the left side of the Elvenking’s face seemed to melt away, revealing badly burnt skin and a missing eye. If Thorin was moved by the rather ugly injury, he never let it show, for he was still positively seething.

“I have faced the great serpents of the North,” Thranduil growled as way of explanation and stepped back, his face thankfully returning to normal. Quite upset, the Elvenking returned to his throne, reminding Bilbo of a miffed bird with ruffled feathers. The insult seemed to have angered him badly, yet when he spoke his voice was dangerously calm. “I warned your grandfather of what his greed would summon, but he would not listen.”

Thranduil sat once more on his throne, seizing his oaken staff in one hand as he fixed a cold stare on Thorin. “You are just like him. Arrogant. Simple-minded. Unaffected by others’ pain, as long as you get what you want.”

“Do not speak ill of my grandfather,” Thorin growled, “or Mahal help me, I-”

“And what exactly do you intend to do, King Without a Mountain? You are here alone, without weapons, and surrounded by my kin. Now this is a situation I quite remember being turned around not so long ago…” Thranduil gave his carven staff a soft stroke. “Your grandfather took great pleasure in humiliating me in front of my people, all those decades ago…”

Thorin looked like he was making an effort to remember, then he frowned further. “Those gems were never yours to begin with, you had no right-”

“Do you have any idea of what it feels like to be shamed in front of your kin, and be powerless to stop it? No, of course.” Thranduil sighed. “Then I shall endeavor to show you. Legolas!”

Bilbo turned his head in time to see the elf who had been walking beside Balin stride past him and up to the throne. A few elvish words were exchanged and in a heartbeat, the two armored elves standing guard on either side of the throne marched over to Thorin and grabbed his upper arms.

“What is the meaning of this?” the dwarven king hissed, struggling to free himself but to no avail. For all his bravado, he was just as worn out as the rest of the company.

“While revenge is not something I hold dear, I deem it quite useful at times. Times such as this one.” Thranduil settled down comfortably in his wooden throne and gestured to the one called Legolas. “I believe you have met my son, dwarf. Through him I shall teach you a valuable lesson: never anger an immortal, for we hold everlasting grudges.”

Another word from the Elvenking and Legolas drew forth a knife. The blade was short but looked like it could cut through stone if need be. Bilbo’s breath caught in his throat. _What do I do now? How do I save Thorin? Oh, stupid Took blood, where are you when I need you most?_

The other dwarves too seemed to have caught sight of the knife, for growls and shouts were erupting to Bilbo’s left. The princes’ voices were the loudest, laden with threats and promises of death if any harm was to come to their uncle.

“Kill me, and see the only hope of ever seeing Smaug destroyed die with me,” Thorin seethed from between his captors.

“Oh, but it is not my intention to kill you, Thorin Oakenshield. See it rather as a lesson of humility, something you seem to lack terribly. Legolas, proceed.”

Slowly – almost reluctantly, Bilbo noted – the younger elf walked over to Thorin. A long, uncomfortable staring battle was engaged then, as dread and apprehension weighed heavily on every onlooker.

It wasn’t until the first clump of hair hit the ground that the Elvenking’s purpose became clear.

Bilbo could only watch helplessly as Legolas cut away at Thorin’s hair, and the outraged scream that barrelled through the dwarven king’s lips mirrored the one the hobbit wished he could let out.

Everything dissolved into chaos from this moment on; the sounds of the silver beads from Thorin’s braids hitting the ground was covered by howls and roars from all thirteen dwarves. While Thorin tried with all his might to escape the offending blade, Kili and Fili pushed their own captors away and rushed to their uncle. They didn’t make it very far, however, as two more guards kicked them to the ground.

Those of the dwarves who had enough energy, such as Dwalin, Gloin and Nori, were shouting threats at the top of their lungs, verbally hacking off every appendage the Elvenking might possess, both in common tongue and in Khuzdul. The others were simply avoiding looking at Thorin, as if his mere sight would hurt them.

Bilbo’s heart nearly broke when he caught sight of Balin. The old dwarf had fallen to his knees and was staring at the scene in front of him, mouth slightly agape and eyes filled up with tears. On the ground next to Balin, Bifur was curled up, eyes tightly shut and hands clamped over his ears.

When the knife moved from his hair to his beard, Thorin’s rage increased tenfold and he snarled as a rabbid warg would, feet lashing out to kick at Legolas, but a well-placed punch to the ribs from an armored fist had him choking.

It was over before long. When Legolas slipped his knife back into its sheath, all that remained of Thorin’s grey-streaked black mane lay in clumps haphazardly distributed on his skull. His beard had suffered the same fate, and fresh cuts, a result of the king’s strong struggle, were slowly oozing blood down his cheeks and onto the ground.

But his eyes… his eyes were no longer holding pride and defiance. They were shining with anger, hate… and terror.

“Stay here if you will, and rot,” Thranduil spoke up, almost bored, and gestured for the guards to take them all away. “A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf. I am patient. I can wait.”

“ _Ishkh khakfe andu null!_ ” Thorin yelled as he was dragged away, almost foaming through bared teeth as his boots stepped over grey and black locks that once stood proud on his head.

This only made the Elvenking smile. “I would love to see you try.”

 

* * *

 

 

It took some time and a great deal of stealth, but Bilbo managed to collect all the beads that had been cut away from Thorin’s hair before an elf came to clean the throne room up. Some were still attached to bits of braids, but Bilbo stuffed everything in his pockets to be sorted out later. He then scampered out in search of his dwarven friends.

It wasn’t very hard, really. All he had to do was follow the loud ruckus that the company had the tendency to leave in its wake, and he soon found himself down in some kind of dungeon.

Each dwarf had his own cell, carved directly into stone, with bars as wide as Bilbo’s legs. But this did not seem to deter the dwarves, for most of them were throwing themselves against their doors to try and break free.

“Again!” Gloin yelped as his bruised shoulder hit the iron bars with little success.

“Leave it!” a tired, broken voice that once belonged to Balin snapped. “There is no way out! This is no Orc dungeon, these are the Halls of the Woodland Realm. No one leaves here but by the King’s consent.”

“And it is very unlikely we’re going to get that, brother,” Dwalin grunted, leaning against a wall. “We’re going to rot in here for the next decade or so, if not more.”

“Did anyone see where they took Uncle Thorin?” Kili asked timidly from another cell sitting atop a few steps. “Is he nearby? I can’t hear him.”

“He is not with us, lad,” Balin answered sadly.

“Then what is going to happen to him?”

“I wish I knew, lad. I really do.”

“Thorin shouldn’t have insulted the King,” Dori moaned from the ground of his cell, where he sat propped up against the wall. “Our only hope was to strike a deal with the elves. Now, only Mahal knows how much time we are going to remain stuck in here!”

As his curiosity was peaked, Bilbo checked around for any guard before he took off his ring. “Only until I find a way to get all of you out of here,” he whispered, stepping out of the shadows.

When the dwarves cheered and called his name, Bilbo quickly shushed them, raising his hands. It took a while for them to calm down and keep their voices low, lest they attract elves to the dungeon.

“We thought we had lost you to the spiders!” Ori said quietly, happiness shining in his eyes.

“No, I followed you from a distance, I was never too far away.”

“Mister Gandalf was right, you _are_ a remarkable burglar,” Bofur grinned, his head nestled between the bars of his cell.

“Have you seen where Uncle Thorin was taken, Bilbo?” Kili asked under his breath.

The young dwarf’s voice was heavy with hope, and the hobbit sighed sadly. “No, Kili, I’m sorry. I could only locate the twelve of you, mostly thanks to the racket you were making. I don’t know where your uncle is.”

Kili nodded slowly and slid to the ground, leaning his chin on his raised knees under his older brother’s defeated gaze.

Bilbo’s tongue was itching with a thousand questions, yet he chose to give the dwarves a moment of peace before he asked the first one. “Why did Thorin reject the Elvenking’s help? I mean… I know he’s not exactly in Thorin’s good books, but wouldn’t it have been simpler to just say yes?”

Balin snorted. “Thorin is a good lad, better than most. But he often mistakes pride and arrogance. He couldn’t bear to accept help from someone who once turned their back on him.”

“So, that’s it? It’s not even about the gems Thranduil wanted?”

“That.” Balin sighed, for once betraying just how old and tired he was. “That’s an even older story. Back when Thror was still King Under the Mountain, dwarves and elves used to trade goods. When we only lacked food, as the Lonely Mountain didn’t have much to offer in terms of hunting grounds, the elves would often buy gems, precious stones and on a few occasions, jewelry. Thranduil especially fancied the white gems from the northern side of the mountain.”

Bilbo sat on the ground in front of Balin’s cell, listening intently. If he tried hard, he could just pretend that they were back on the road, and this was just another story told around the fire.

“Nobody remembers what went wrong first. Dwarves say Thranduil refused to pay his tribute to Thror. I’ve been told Elves accused Thror of stealing what was rightfully theirs. No one really knows what transpired then.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Dwalin growled. “Damn elves wanted to have the gems for free, that’s what.”

“No one really knows,” Balin repeated firmly. “Still, Elves of Greenwood and Dwarves of Erebor never spoke much with each other after that. Thranduil felt humiliated, and Thror… well, my guess is that gold-sickness already had a strong hold on his heart, and he just took little interest in everything else.”

“Refusing to give the damn gems was not enough, Thorin had to go and insult the elf,” Nori grumbled. “Maybe he wouldn’t have thrown us in cells if our dear King had watched his tongue.”  

“Well, wishing for someone to die in flames isn’t exactly considered polite, even by dwarvish standards,” Dwalin shrugged, giving Bilbo a pointed look.

“Were I in Uncle’s boots, I would have said much worse,” Fili said.

“Is that what he said? I knew there was something about fire in there…” Bilbo mused. “Your language is kind of unique, I wish I had more time to learn… And that other thing he said, before he left? I don’t think I ever heard it before.”

There were a few chuckles among the dwarves, and Bilbo wondered what he had said that was this funny. “Of course you’ve never heard those words, my friend,” Bofur grinned weakly. “Thorin basically said that he would… how can I put it… well, that he would gladly empty buckets of excrements over Thranduil’s ancestors’ heads.”

“Oh.”

“And I am giving you the polite version here, Thorin was quite understandably shaken after they… well, after he was…”

“After they cut his hair and beard you mean?” Bilbo asked innocently.

The hobbit almost jumped when Bifur howled, curling up against the bars of his cell. The mood grew dark once more as every pair of eyes turned downwards to stare at the polished ground. Uncomfortable silence settled, broken only by Bifur’s uncontrolled whimpers and the occasional shifting from the other dwarves.

“Is it… that bad?” Bilbo asked tentatively, feeling that it was possibly a sensible topic. But he had to know.

“A dwarf’s hair and beard are his greatest pride, mister Baggins,” Balin supplied. “To rob a male dwarf of both is highly disrespectful, and causes great distress and dishonor.”

“But I don’t understand, Thorin keeps his beard rather short, I’ve seen him shave more than once,” Bilbo said, frowning.

“The meaning is not the same when a dwarf chooses to cut his beard himself. Thorin shaves because he never wants to forget Erebor, where many dwarves lost their own hair and beards to dragon fire. It is an act of penitence that is respected amongst our people. But when the act is openly carried out by another person, it is merely a display of power, to ascertain dominance of one person over another.”

“Long story short, master burglar,” Dwalin growled out, “it’s almost as if they raped Thorin in front of us.”

The words flew and slapped Bilbo hard in the face. He had never expected… well, he had figured out that it had to be something of high importance, since it seemed to set the dwarves on edge. But this… “You can’t be serious,” he whispered, astonished.

“This is very serious, Bilbo,” Gloin muttered from his cell. “Especially for Durin’s folk.”

“And other clans as well,” Bofur piped in, frowning for once. “Us Broadbeams value our beard and hair as much as you do. Why, when Bifur and I were younger, we ran into some orcs in the woods and-” The black-haired dwarf winced when another wail came from his cousin’s cell, hardly muffled this time. “Well, he won an axe to the forehead in exchange for his lost braids that day.”

There were voices coming from the passageway on Bilbo’s right, and his mind went alert once more. “I have to go,” he said hurriedly, already fishing his ring out of his pocket. “I’ll find a way to get you out of here, all of you, I swear.”

“Please Bilbo, find Uncle Thorin,” Kili pleaded softly. “Tell him we do not think less of him!”

“We are not leaving without him,” the hobbit promised. “Hold on, all of you. Before you know it, we will be back on the road and gazing at the Lonely Mountain.”


	2. Dungeon Deep

 

_Well, maybe I was a little ahead of myself…_

Bilbo had thought it would merely take a few hours, one or two days at most, to find a way to free the dwarves and lead them out of the elven palace.

Yet here he was, four weeks later, and he still had no idea how to do either. The keys to the dwarves’ cells seemed to change hands on a regular basis, and it wouldn’t do much good if he had them anyway, for the heavy gates were closed at all times by order of the Elvenking.

Not to mention that he still had to find Thorin.

The hobbit had searched every room, every dark corridor for the dwarven king, only to come back unsuccessful each and every time. Kili and Fili’s mood grew darker by the day, for the brothers were starting to believe their uncle had been disposed of. Bilbo tried to reassure them, saying that there still were some parts of the palace that he had yet to explore, but the young princes’ smiles he got in return held less and less hope as days went by.

Food, on the other hand, never was a problem. Elves certainly didn’t want their prisoners to die of hunger, for the meals they brought to the cells – although devoid of any meat – were quite copious. At first, the burly dwarves complained and turned their backs on the green food; but after a few days, they had to resign themselves to eat the berries and carrots they were given. Bilbo, for his part, was happy to finish off any salad or fruit, and the occasional bite of lembas. That elvish bread seemed to make the dwarves sick, but it was quite useful and took up little space, so Bilbo filled his pockets with it at any chance he got.

Days of this routine turned into weeks, and as the fourth one came to a close, Bilbo was starting to think they would be locked in here forever. Locked with elves, carrots, and without any sun. Or Thorin for that matter.

Luck smiled down on Bilbo one evening. Well, who knew what time of day it really was, but Bilbo was about to retreat to a corner to sleep, so it was like an evening to him.

He was casually playing with his golden ring when he heard them talking. Thranduil’s son, Legolas, and another elf.

“He just won’t eat on a regular basis. Sometimes he doesn’t even touch anything for a few days. It has been one week this time,” Legolas said.

“His fate is his to decide, if he wishes to die of hunger then so be it,” the other, dark-haired elf shrugged. “Do not concern yourself over a mere dwarf, Legolas. He is not worthy of your attention.”

At this, Legolas’ icy eyes hardened. “I do not care for the dwarf. My father wants him alive, that creature’s death would only bring his ill temper forth.”

_Thorin. They are speaking about Thorin_ , Bilbo thought to himself, hope flaring up in his chest again as all thoughts of sleep escaped him.

“Have you tried lembas?”

“I did, but he has little care for it. Or anything the kitchens have to offer,” Legolas sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. “I had to try something else.”

The dark-haired elf’s eyebrow quirked. “If you have tried giving him everything you could find in the kitchens, what more can you do?”

“I went hunting this morning and-”

“Legolas!”

“It is just _one_ rabbit, Hatholnin, and I made sure to pick the oldest one,” Thranduil’s son retorted, gesturing to a small bag that certainly contained his game. “I’m only giving him a leg or two, I’ll hang the rest to dry so it can make for other meals, should the need arise.”

“Dwarves are wicked, wretched creatures,” the other elf spat. “Eating flesh and drinking blood…”

“Hatholnin, promise me you won’t alarm the others.”

“I won’t, Legolas, but this does not mean I condone the way you act. These dwarves… they do not deserve to be treated kindly.”

With a last disapproving glare, the dark-haired elf went off, leaving Legolas to stand alone with his small bag and a forlorn look.

The Firstborn, however, soon marched off in another direction, and Bilbo instinctively followed him, hoping against all odds that he would be taken to where Thorin was held captive.

Down, down, down they went, trudging down stairs and spirals until Bilbo thought they would reach the very heart or Arda. As they walked, the lanterns grew rarer, until they finally disappeared altogether. The hobbit was thankful for his ring then, for he could still see in the darkness as he would in bright daylight. But he wasn’t sure he would be able to find his way back.

“Dwarf.”

Bilbo abruptly looked up from his feet – which he had been staring at to avoid kicking a stone and revealing his presence – to see the elf had stopped in front of a door that looked exactly like the ones keeping the other dwarves prisoner. What was inside the cell, he couldn’t see however, as the elf’s frame was hindering his sight.

“Are you still not speaking, dwarf?”

Bilbo decided to sit and wait for the elf to leave before he could see for himself if Thorin was really inside that cell. He felt his heart swell at the thought that the dwarven king was alive, and that he had found him.

_Kili and Fili are going to be relieved!_

“I can hear you breathe, so I know you yet live. I am just here to give you your next meal, should you wish to eat it.”

Legolas crouched and emptied the content of the bag in a wooden bowl and slipped it under the door. He tied the small pouch to his belt and turned away, before he hesitated.

“I do not wish for you to die, dwarf, nor do I mean you harm,” he whispered softly, and in a few long strides he was away, leaving Bilbo alone in the dark corridor with the wild beating of his heart.

Unwilling to waste any time, yet wary of what he might find inside the cell, the hobbit crept to the iron bars without a single sound.

He almost cried out in relief when he saw Thorin sitting up against the wall. Thrain’s son was quite a sight, with his torn-up clothes and slumped shoulders. The blue cotton shirt had tears that even Bilbo’s mother would have had trouble mending, revealing dirty and bruised skin underneath. The breeches and boots hadn’t suffered as much as the shirt, though, being just as ragged as the last time Bilbo had seen them.

Then, of course, there was Thorin’s face. Most of the cuts and bruises had healed, but Legolas’ short blade had wreaked havoc in the king’s hair and beard. While no patch of skin was entirely visible on Thorin’s chin or skull, the dwarf was a sore mess. Gone were the rich dark locks and the silver streaks that used to run through the black mane like gold veins in the mountainside. Instead, strands of various lengths adorned Thorin’s head, dirty and wild, and probably cacked with dried up blood.

It made Bilbo’s heart ache to see the king – to see _his_ king – so defeated. When there was a glimmer in Thorin’s eyes that looked too much like concealed tears, Bilbo knew he had to speak up.

“Thorin,” he whispered eagerly. “Thorin it’s me, it’s Bilbo.”

He saw the dwarf’s head rise from the knee it was resting on and give a look around, to which the hobbit remembered that he probably couldn’t see anything. “Here, to your left, I’m standing by your door.”

“Master Baggins?” Thorin’s gruff voice called out tentatively, and although it was dry and cracked, it was like music to Bilbo’s ears.

He watched as the dwarf dropped on all fours with a pained grunt and slowly, painstakingly made his way over to the door. Thorin felt for the iron bars and hoisted himself up until he was standing on slightly trembling legs.

“It’s Bilbo, but yes, it’s me,” the hobbit whispered. He reached out to pat Thorin’s calloused hand reassuringly. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

The only answer he got in return was a grunt. There was something off about Thorin’s eyes, as if they had been emptied of all light.

“You don’t look so well,” the hobbit noted.

“And how can you tell?” Thorin rasped. “I can’t even see my hands…”

“Well, I… that is to say… hobbits have a very good eyesight you know?” Bilbo answered poorly, hoping that the dwarf would buy it. There was a gap between a good eyesight and seeing in the dark. “And it’s not that hard, either, considering… well…” The hobbit gestured in Thorin’s general direction, but he remembered that the dwarf couldn’t see him. “The state you are in.”

When Thorin’s features grew dark, Bilbo knew he had made a mistake. “No no no, I mean, you look worn-out and even sleep-deprived, do you even sleep? I couldn’t do anything else, in here, with so little light-”

“Do not trouble yourself, burglar,” Thorin said in a strained voice. “I know perfectly well what I look like.”

Bilbo sighed. “I… I talked to the others and-”

“Then they told you why I would sooner die of shame than look at them in the eye again.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Nobody is going to die, and we are not getting out of here without you, so you’d better get used to the idea that you are going to see them again. And very soon, I’d wager.”

“You are just a hobbit. You don’t understand.”

Thorin began to retreat from the door, probably to sit in a corner again and brood, but Bilbo caught his larger hand before he could get far. “I know this is important to you, but it is nothing time cannot fix! By the time you are crowned king, you’ll be able to braid your hair just like you used to!”

“Do not mock me, Halfling,” Thorin snarled. “You know nothing.”

_Oh, you stubborn, sulking dwarf!_

“I may not be a dwarf, but I have forsaken everything I held dear back in the Shire to leave on this fool’s journey with you!” Bilbo whispered furiously, squeezing Thorin’s hand more than necessary. “I sacrificed a life of peace, quiet and plenty to travel across Middle-Earth with thirteen dwarves, although I could be killed in the process. Don’t you dare swat me away like you would an irksome fly and tell me I know nothing!”

Thorin fell silent. His eyes were downcast, but he wasn’t trying to put distance between Bilbo and himself anymore. The hobbit sighed, regretting his outburst. “Look, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to lash out at you. I just… I guess I’ve been really worried, that’s all.”

It took several long, excruciating seconds, but Thorin finally nodded and raised his eyes to where he thought the hobbit’s were. “I just keep on misjudging you, it seems,” he said softly. “I thought you were long gone… I thought I would eventually die in here, in the dark…”

“And leave Erebor to Fili and Kili? Don’t be silly,” Bilbo tried to joke, glad for the change in topic.  

Thorin allowed a small smile to grace his lips, the first one in months, and though it was short-lived and splintered it did a lot of good to his hobbit companion’s heart. “How are they faring?”

“They are in good shape. Good enough to mock elves as they pass by and throw peas at them, at any rate. They are worried about you,” he added with an afterthought.  

At this Thorin leaned his forehead against the iron bars and let out an audible sigh. “I was afraid something happened to them,” he muttered.

He looked so lost, so broken, standing there on trembling legs, that Bilbo reached out to lay a hand on the dwarf’s head. The hobbit bit his lip when Thorin jerked away from the small appendage. “Thorin, it really doesn’t matter to them, whether your hair reaches your shoulders or not. They told me as much.” He reached out again and this time, he cupped the side of the dwarf’s face, fingers settling on the hard jaw which teeth clenched at the foreign touch. He knew he was overstepping his boundaries, but he couldn’t help himself. “And it doesn’t matter to me.”

Bilbo could nearly _feel_ the battle taking place in Thorin’s mind after he was done speaking. The king struggled to remain strong and regal, but after four weeks of isolation in complete darkness and shame, Bilbo could feel his resolve cracking.

His burden was a heavy one to carry, and thousands of dwarves looked up to him. To disappoint them was a fear that was probably constantly dancing at the back of the black-haired dwarf’s head. There was only so long one could pretend to be strong and in control of everything…

 Sure enough, Thorin eventually relented and leaned into his burglar’s hand, gratefully relishing in another being’s touch. Bilbo smiled weakly and ran the tip of his fingers into uneven strands of hair, and Thorin didn’t complain when he brushed his whiskers. The dwarf had been in dire need of some kind of contact with the world, that much Bilbo could tell, so he allowed his guard to slip a little and comforted Thorin as best as he could.

“Everything will be fine,” the hobbit whispered warmly, wishing he could do more than combing what remained of Thorin’s hair with his hand. “I’ve found you now, it’s only a matter of time until I find a way to get us all out of here. You’ll be leading this company again before you know it!”

“May Mahal hear your words,” Thorin mumbled in return, “and grant me the strength to leave this place as quickly as possible.”

“The elves say you are not eating. You should know better than that.”

“I have little care for what they have to offer,” Thorin growled softly.

“The one I followed here brought you meat,” Bilbo pointed out.

“Again, I don’t care.”

Bilbo huffed; he had the impression that he was scolding a petulant young child who didn’t want to finish his plate, and not a king. “Now, that’s just stupid. You need to eat if you want to retain some kind of strength, I am not carrying you out of here. Besides, this elf went through the trouble of hunting a rabbit for you, although it seems to be something elves look down upon. He went against his people’s beliefs just so you could eat; I’m not asking you to thank him, but for Yavanna’s sake, at least eat what he gives you and use it to your advantage.”

Reluctantly, but knowing there was no use debating with the hobbit, Thorin slid to the ground and felt around for the wooden bowl. “What about you? Do you eat enough?”

The question surprised Bilbo; he didn’t expect Thorin to worry about him while the dwarf had so much to worry about already. “Yes yes, I’m fine. Unlike our companions – and you, apparently – I enjoy green food just as much as the next hobbit, and I find plenty of it. Would you just eat?”

Thorin muttered something that suspiciously sounded like “pig-headed halfling”, but soon enough there were chewing noises coming from inside the cell, as well as stomach growls. Were their predicament not so dire, Bilbo would have laughed.

He waited until he was sure Thorin had finished his meal before he cleared his throat. “I need to go and inform the others that I found you.”

“You are leaving?”

No, that wasn’t dread and distress he could head in the king’s voice, no, he was mistaken.

“I’ll be back soon, I promise. I know where you are now, and your cell is not guarded, I will come and see you as often as I can.”

There was a slight pause as Thorin processed the words, and he nodded. “Be safe, Bilbo. You are my… you are our only hope.”

Bilbo nodded and silently began to ascend the stairs. His legs felt like jelly and he willed himself to think it was because of the heavy task that now burdened his shoulders.

And not because Thorin had finally used his first name.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo usually came to Thorin at night – well, the few hours of weak elvish activity that he had labelled as “night”, anyway. This way, he was sure he wouldn’t be caught, should he fall asleep in a corner and wake up a few hours later.

When he was done scouring every corner of the palace for a way out, he would retire to Thorin’s side with warmth from his nephews, words of support from the other dwarves and, sometimes, an apple or two.

The routine carried on for a few days. Bilbo would just sit and make sure the King ate something, all the while talking about his recent discoveries – which he embellished quite a bit, for there wasn’t much to talk about – and the other dwarves’ whereabouts. Kili and Fili were fine, though bored. Dwalin finally managed to break a finger while punching his cell’s door. Bifur usually slept the day away and only woke up to eat. So on, so on. Thorin wasn’t very talkative, only nodding and grunting, with of course the occasional word to answer a question.

That was fine by Bilbo. He was aware Thorin needed time to recover, away from prying eyes, and the fact that the dwarf acknowledged him and heeded his recommendation to eat was enough.

When Thorin was done eating, they usually sat back to back with the iron bars between them, which denied Bilbo the sight of Thorin and put him off a little. But he kept in mind that the dwarf couldn’t see him anyway and that it was as close as they could be in the current situation. A few nights prior, Bilbo had taken off his ring to be on equal level with Thorin; but the sheer darkness and gloom had the Baggins in him shaking, and he quickly, shamefully put the ring back on. It reminded him too much of a dark, damp cave, and despair, and… riddles…

He had then realized that Thorin had had to stand that environment for well over a month, now.

If Bilbo was lucky, Thorin would lean back just enough so that the back of his head fit between bars, and came to rest atop honey curls. The hobbit didn’t know why the simple act made him feel so warm, but he guessed he was glad Thorin managed to relax enough to open up a little.

And that night was one of those nights. Bilbo could feel the comforting weight of the dwarf’s head on his own, as well as the radiating warmth from his back. It was a blessing to possess a body comparable to a furnace, when there was naught but cold stone all around you.

“Last night I dreamt I had died.”

It caught Bilbo off guard, the abruptness of it. He was left fishing for words as Thorin pursued softly.

“I ended up in Mahal’s Great Halls. There were lanterns, carved out of the walls. Tapestries so high, with countless names written on them, yet there was nobody around.” Thorin’s deep baritone voice was soothing and Bilbo allowed himself to be lulled into comfortable silence as he listened. “I wandered down the Halls, room after room, and still couldn’t find anyone. Until I came across my brother.”

Bilbo shifted his head a little to glance at Thorin from the corner of his eye. “Your brother?”

“Aye. Frerin. I went to greet him, but he would not look at me. He said…” At this Thorin’s voice faltered but he never went quiet. “He said that he hadn’t expected me to die in a common Elf dungeon, chained and dirty, with no hair or beard to speak of. That it had brought shame on the line of Durin, and that I was to wander in the Great Halls until the end of days. Then he disappeared and I woke up, to discover I yet lived.”

Bilbo held his breath for a long time, as if a puff of air could break the trust that Thorin had granted him with his story. He mulled over his next words carefully, afraid to upset the king. “I never knew you had a brother,” he whispered.

“I did. He was still in his prime when battle claimed him.”

Bilbo winced and almost slapped himself. _Well played now, Bilbo Baggins!_ “I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t even born, you have nothing to do with the mass that sent him back to Mahal.”

Well, Thorin was in a sharing mood that night. Bilbo only wished his tales weren’t so dark.

“Still, I know next to nothing about you,” the hobbit continued, hoping to steer the conversation to more hearty waters. “Well, I mean, up until you barged in my living room and called me a grocer, that is.”

“I was sadly mistaken, wasn’t I?”

“It pleases me that you do realize that, yes.” The stifled chuckle that came from within the cell lifted Bilbo’s heart, and he allowed himself to grin. “Do I dare hope that our adventures changed the idea you had of hobbits?”

“No.”

“What- how can you say that, after everything we’ve been through?” Bilbo sputtered. “After the trolls, the goblins, Beorn, and now Mirkwood for Yavanna’s-”

“Our journey did not change the idea I had of hobbits,” Thorin said calmly. “It changed the idea I had of you.”

“Oh.”

Bilbo felt very stupid. He wriggled his toes on the cold floor as he racked his brain for something to say that didn’t betray just how much Thorin’s last comment affected him. “Well, as I’ve said, I don’t know much about you,” he settled on saying. “Will you tell me stories from when you were younger?”

There was a long pause as if Thorin was weighting his answer. “Maybe another time, halfling,” he finally said.

_Oh, so it’s back to halfling now… damn Dwarves and their secrecy!_

“Well then, in that case, I won’t be telling you about my exciting and amazing childhood,” Bilbo huffed mockingly.

“I never asked for it anyway. Pies and contests to determine who owns the biggest chicken in town leave me quite unaffected.”

“It was the biggest _goose_ , and I won that one, thank you.”

Again, a chuckle, Bilbo could feel it on his back. A strand of hair probably belonging to Thorin came to rest on his sensitive hobbit ear, tickling it softly, and he sighed. He had nothing against spending a few hours in that spot, or even catch a nap, for this position certainly was comfortable.

“You would end up with a stiff neck and a painful back.”

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open to the realization that he had voiced his last thoughts out loud. Frozen to the spot, he didn’t dare move, for fear that Thorin might move back from the door and settle somewhere else. “I didn’t… I- I mean, I would never…” he stammered lamely.

“At ease, Bilbo, at ease. I cannot say for myself that I find your presence uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Well… well, that’s, that’s a relief.”

“Were it not for you, I would have probably given up by now and handed every treasure in Erebor over to the wretched Elf.” Thorin’s head shifted against Bilbo’s, tickling his ears further. “I owe you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you owe me nothing, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo protested in a furious whisper. “Except perhaps new plumbing, but we’ll discuss this once the journey is over.”

“Should I ask?”

“Probably not.”

“Very well then, I shall not ask.”

“You are most wise, King Under the Mountain.”

There was a dry chuckle that tumbled out of Thorin’s mouth, before he sighed. “And what a King I make… Holed up in a dark cell, even worse, an elvish cell, with hardly enough hair to keep from catching death by cold.”

Bilbo worried at his lower lip; of course, he hadn’t recovered from losing most of his hair and beard. Talking to a hobbit in complete darkness was one thing; but what of the moment he would have to face the other dwarves in bright daylight? Bilbo had half a thought that it wouldn’t go as smoothly.

“You are too hard on yourself,” he piped up. “I mean, you still have more hair than I do.”

“I know you mean well, but that’s hardly a good thing.”

Bilbo pretended to be offended. “Why, are you saying my hair is not long enough?”

“Well, it would do you some good to let it grow, give you some more countenance.”

“Oh, now I don’t have any countenance?”

“That wasn’t what I meant. I merely think it would suit you better.”

“Tell you what: if I ever get all of you dwarves out of here, I promise not to cut my hair until you are crowned King, is that acceptable your Highness?”

At this Thorin actually _laughed_. Granted, it was a weak, strained rumble, but Bilbo recognized it as a laugh all the same. “I stand by what I said. You really are a very peculiar hobbit.” He then startled the hobbit by reaching back and squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder. “And I am very glad you are.”

Bilbo reached back as well to give Thorin’s shoulder a similar pat, but he missed and found his fingers buried in short hair. Immediately the dwarf tensed, but when Bilbo tried to retrieve his hand he found it stuck in the many tangles that a few weeks without any comb entailed. He tugged sharply but only managed to slam Thorin’s skull against the iron bars for his effort.

“Oh goodness gracious, Thorin, I’m sorry!” he said hastily. He just kept on ruining nice moments, as it seemed.

But Thorin just gave him an amused grunt, and Bilbo wondered when he had earned the right for the dwarven king to be so lenient towards him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey Fili, have you seen that elf  just now? I think she was watching me…”

“Of course she was, Kili, you just chucked apple seed at her head…”

“Aye, aye, but I felt her gaze linger on me.”

“Maybe she was wondering why you’re so ugly, although you are related to me!”

“Or maybe she just realized I’m the only handsome beast of this company.”

“If you boys don’t stop talking _immediately_ , I’ll personally make sure no one ever finds the two of you the least bit attractive!”

“Er, we’re sorry Mister Dwalin.”

“Aye, we’re sorry. Goodnight Mister Dwalin.”


	3. The Great Escape

It had been completely fortuitous, really, the way the idea developed itself in Bilbo’s mind.

First, he had been cornered by a patrol of elves, which forced him to retreat down narrow stairs that he had never taken – he was searching for a way _out_ , so going deeper into the palace held little interest to him, unless he was visiting Thorin. He soon found himself in what was probably the biggest cellar he was ever given to see. Racks and racks of bottles piled high against the walls, from floor to ceiling, cushioned by straw and some covered with a delicate layer of dust.

He had heard voices and instinctively hid behind a large barrel, forgetting for a moment that his ring made him invisible. There were elves, of course, all dark hair and pretty smiles, and the ones in the cellar were rolling three barrels to an empty spot by the far wall.

“I do believe that is the last of them. Let us send them to Esgaroth so some space is freed for the full ones,” one elf with intricate braids in his hair said.

“Do you think there will be enough wine for the feast?” another asked.

“We still have four days left until the feast. We yet have time to prepare.”

And with that, the elf lowered a wooden lever, opening a trapdoor through which the barrel rolled and disappeared. The loud splashing sound that followed indicated that they had landed in water, presumably some kind of river.

And that is when things began to click into place in Bilbo’s mind.

 

* * *

 

 

When the night of the feast was upon him, Bilbo took to stalking the guard who had responsibility of the keys to the dwarves’ cells. He strained his ears and his eyes for any opening that might allow him to relieve the elf of his load, for after all time was of this essence and he had a feeling that if he didn’t try anything that night, the company may very well spend a decent amount of months locked up in the Elvenking’s palace.

And they couldn’t afford it.

Of course, he hadn’t told the dwarves about his plan, not even Thorin. He didn’t want to disappoint them should his plan backfire. That, and he had a feeling that they wouldn’t like said plan very much, either. But if any of them had a better idea, well then, they were free to try their luck! And if the past few weeks were any indication, they hadn’t come up with anything worth trying.

Bilbo almost chortled when the elven guard descended the stairs to the cellar. Was it by pure stroke of luck that two parts of his plan were to meet? He decided to overlook that coincidence and hurried after the elf.

When Bilbo reached the cellar he promptly hid behind his regular barrel, watching very carefully as the elven guard made his way over to two of his kin. The two elves seemed to be whispering about something.

“These empty barrels should have been sent to Esgaroth hours ago,” the guard said as he approached, and when he gestured to the pile of barrels sitting in a corner, waiting to be sent away. Bilbo’s chest swelled with relief when he counted twenty of them. He just hoped they wouldn’t be thrown out before he could put the rest of his plan in motion. “The party has been waiting for them.”

The tallest of the two elves whirled around to face the newcomer and gave a tentative smile. “Say what you like about our ill-tempered King, but he has excellent taste in wine.” When the guard’s frown didn’t waver, the elf held up a half-drunk bottle of clear red liquid, and it dawned on Bilbo what the elves were doing in the cellar. They were pilfering wine from the feast. “Come, Elros, try it.”

Bilbo’s prey, now known as Elros, shook his head. “I have the dwarves in my charge.” He dangled the bunch of keys hanging at his belt for emphasis, making Bilbo sigh with want.

“They’re locked up, where can they go?”

The burglar watched in disbelief as Elros thought hard, then finally relented and sat down at a small table already laden with bottles and glasses. _If he gets tipsy enough, maybe I’ll be able to snatch the keys without him noticing_ , he thought.

And get tipsy that elf did. Bilbo didn’t know just how _strong_ elvish wine just was, but it took only two bottles and a couple of hours for all three elves to lay their heads upon the table in drunken stupor. Whether fate had had a hand to play in this or not Bilbo didn’t know, but he sure was no ungrateful hobbit!

Sending a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar, Bilbo slipped out from his hiding spot and skilfully relieved the elven guard of his clinking charge. Holding the keys together in one hand so they wouldn’t make any unnecessary noise, he ran up the stairs and into the deserted corridors of the Elvenking’s palace.

He knows he has to get Thorin first. He couldn’t possibly free the other dwarves and have them all merrily stumbling and bumping their way down to Thorin’s dark cell. Nor could he leave such a large company to wait in the corridor, where they would stand out like hairless hobbit feet at a Yule eve party.

With practised ease, Bilbo almost flew down the stairs to Thorin’s cell, keys tightly clenched in his right hand. He quickly checked for elves – one could never be too careful – before he called out for the King.

“Thorin!” he said as he came to the door. “Thorin, wake up, it’s me!”

“Bilbo?” Thorin drawled, his words thick with sleep.

“Please, please, hurry up, we don’t have much time!” the hobbit pleaded, and he was already trying out keys on the cell’s lock. Sudden dread gripped him; what would he do if the key to Thorin’s cell was somewhere else, and he was only holding the keys to the other dwarves’ freedom? A shudder ran through his small body, but he chose to shrug it off. For the time being.

“Have you found a way out?” Thorin’s voice was suddenly very awake and close. The dwarf must have moved to the door.

“Yes, yes I think so… But for now I would just like to- Ah ha!” Bilbo grinned foolishly as the lock mercifully clicked and the door slid open. “There, you’re free! Now let us go and fetch the others before- hmph!”

With surprising speed and strength for someone who just spent the past few weeks holed up in a dungeon, Thorin had trudged out of his cell and grabbed Bilbo in a fierce hug. The hobbit was startled; the embrace held the same warmth as the one he had received on the Carrock, after Azog’s attack. Only with fewer layers of clothing, and Thorin seemed to have lost some weight.

“I shall never doubt you again, Bilbo,” the dwarf said, his voice muffled by golden locks.

“I’ll remind you of these words by the end of the night,” Bilbo said in return, briefly hugging Thorin back. When the dwarf gave a puzzled huff, he shook his head. “Later. Now come, there’s no time to waste.”

Grabbing Thorin’s larger forearm, Bilbo hurried towards the stairs and start climbing them in earnest. He stopped at the second step, however, as a sharp tug on his arm sent him staggering backwards. There was a gasp, and he looked down to see Thorin lying flat on his stomach, head cradled in his hands. It dawned then on Bilbo that maybe, he should have warned Thorin that there were stairs.

Just maybe.

“I forgot that you couldn’t see anything,” he apologized softly as he helped the bigger dwarf up.

“Well, it gladdens me that you remember, now,” Thorin grunted as he rubbed his sore nose. Blood was slowly dribbling down his chin and into his mockery of a beard. He must have split his lip.

Their ascent to the more hearty rooms of the palace was slow and tedious. Thorin had his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, for support as well as guidance. The staircase was so narrow that the smaller being was pressed into his side.

Soon, lanterns appeared, and Bilbo slipped off his ring to avoid giving Thorin a heart attack. His footsteps wavered slightly, but light was quick to flood the staircase and he carried on swiftly. He noticed that Thorin’s eyes were only half-opened, and he realized that the sudden light must be hurting them. “Do you wish to stop and rest a bit?”

“No,” Thorin shook his head. “As you’ve said, we have no time to lose.”

But he was panting, almost blind, and Bilbo wouldn’t be surprised if his burly legs gave out from under him. He decided to do the King a favor. “We are almost there. I can’t take you to the other cells, this palace is a real maze and you would slow me down.” Bilbo tutted at Thorin’s indignant huff and pursued. “Wait for me here. I shall retrieve the rest of the company, and off we go. You are closer to the exit I have in mind than the others.”

The mention of the other dwarves cast a dark shadow over Thorin’s features. He had forgotten that he would have to face them, all of them, if they were to escape from the Elvenking’s grasp. “What if an elf comes this way?” he asked.

“That is highly unlikely,” Bilbo said as he pushed the dwarf against the wall where he let him slide to the ground. “There is some kind of feast going on in the higher rooms, and there’s nobody wandering the halls. You have to trust me.”

To Bilbo’s relief, Thorin only hesitated for a couple of seconds before he nodded. “I trust you.”

“Good. I won’t be long.”

Bilbo turned away but before he could continue his way up the stairs, Thorin’s battered hand shot out and grabbed his own, smaller one. “Be careful,” the king all but whispered.

His chest tightening with something he quite couldn’t name, Bilbo nodded solemnly and gave the large hand a comforting squeeze. He tore away from Thorin’s worried blue eyes and willed himself not to look back as he set off to free his dwarven friends.

 

* * *

 

 

 “I’ll wager the sun is on the rise,” Bofur drawled, his feet propped up against iron bars. “Must be nearly dawn.”

The rest of the dwarves gave half-hearted grunts of acknowledgment. Even though their kind was especially good at telling time, even underground, many had lost count after the second week of imprisonment. They relied on Bofur, who had always been particularly gifted with this skill, to keep track of time. But even he was starting to lose grip.

“We’re never gonna reach the mountain, are we?” Ori asked dejectedly, his back softly hitting the wall.

Bofur sighed and was racking his brain for something cheerful to say, when a familiar little voice piped in.

“Not stuck in here, you’re not!”

As if springing forth from thin air, Bilbo appeared before the cells. At the sight of the heavy bundle of keys the hobbit was brandishing, the whole company roared and cried out in joy. Kili and Fili started jumping on the spot, as delighted as dwarflings on their nameday.

“Ssh! Keep it down!” Bilbo scolded as he unlocked Balin’s cell. “There are guards, nearby!”

A small lie, but it would keep the dwarves quiet, at least for a little while.

Much like their uncle – not that he was going to reveal it – Kili and Fili enveloped Bilbo in a bear hug as soon as they were out of their cells. “Lads, lads you are crushing me!” he squeaked.

“You’re the best burglar ever, Bilbo!” Fili cheered.

“I always knew you would get us out of here!” Kili added, nuzzling Bilbo’s hair. “Mister Dwalin said you would abandon us, but I always had faith in you!”

“Oh did he now?” Over Fili’s shoulder, Bilbo’s eyes rested on the tattooed dwarf who, to his credit, had the decency to look sheepish. “On my way to his cell, I might accidentally drop the keys then…”

Muffled laughter followed his statement, and when the brothers set Bilbo’s hairy feet on the ground again, the hobbit made quick work of the remaining locks. Soon, all twelve dwarves were huddled around him, awe and astonishment visible in their tired eyes. Bilbo was overwhelmed with a strong sense of pride, and he puffed up his chest. Just a little bit.

“I stand by what I said,” Dori stated smugly. “Stopping in Bag-End was the best decision we ever made!”

“You’ve got to be joking!” Gloin growled. “You never stopped complaining about the Shire, you old bugger. I, on the other hand, always valued your worth Master Baggins!”

Bilbo waved dismissively when the dwarves all erupted in praises and thanks. “While I am deeply flattered, my friends – no, no, Kili, stop hugging me, you’re crushing my ribs – while I’m deeply flattered, I beg you to hurry. I don’t know how much time we have left, and it might already be too late.”

“What in the name of Eru is the meaning of this?”

All froze when they heard the panicked, almost high-pitched voice coming from above.

Bilbo chanced a glance, and up there stood the elf that had been talking to Legolas, the day he had found Thorin’s cell. Hatholnin, something like that. And he was beyond surprised.

Time seemed to hang as hesitation kept both parties from making the first move.

It was Kili who snapped out of the semi-trance first. He whirled around and before anyone could blink, he hurled the wooden bowl that had been left in his cell at the elf. It connected with the dark-haired Firstborn’s forehead with a cracking sound, and sent him toppling to the ground, unconscious. A good thing too, as the elf was about to call for help.

“Well done, lad!” Balin grinned as they realized just what Kili had prevented.

“A nice shot if there ever was one, brother mine,” Fili nodded, clapping his sibling on the back.

“That’s why I’m the one with a bow, and you’re just a boring heir meant to sit one day on the throne of Erebor,” Kili winked, elbowing the golden-haired prince.

Mentioning Erebor reminded Bilbo that that was a certain King waiting for them in a narrow staircase, arms wrapped around himself to retain his body heat as well as his sanity. “Let us not tarry, maybe someone will come looking for that elf,” he instructed. “Follow me!”

Thankfully, the dwarves nodded and let him take the lead. All were as silent as possible, especially Dwalin, who was still feeling shame for doubting Bilbo. The tattooed dwarf was also probably mourning the loss of Grasper and Keeper, his two trusted battle-axes, to the elves.

Bilbo led the rather large party through the maze of halls, rooms and corridors. He hushed his companions when he picked up sounds that reminded him of a patrol, but thankfully, they didn’t run into anyone on their way to the cellar.

Soon, Bilbo raised his hand, and the dwarves stopped.

“What is it, Master Hobbit?” Nori asked, tugging Ori closer to him.

“I need you to wait here while I go and retrieve Thorin,” Bilbo whispered. “I won’t be long, five minutes at most.”

“But what if elves come this way?” Dori asked worriedly.

Much as he had comforted Thorin, Bilbo told the dwarves that nobody was to come their way, since this area of the palace was always relatively empty, and even more so with the feast going on. When he took his leave to find Thorin, he heard Kili complain that he should have brought the other bowls with him. The hobbit chuckled at this.

Thorin was still sitting where he had left him and now that there was proper lighting, Bilbo could see that the dwarf was a sight for sore eyes. Half-healed cuts and bruises were scattered along his face and neck, and he looked even more tired than after their encounter with Azog. On the bright side, though, his hair and beard had grown a little since they were hacked down.

He looked up swiftly when he heard Bilbo’s footsteps, but instantly relaxed when his blue eyes fell on the hobbit.

“Come on, it’s time to go,” Bilbo whispered as he took Thorin’s arm to haul it over his shoulders, but he was met with resistance on the dwarf’s part. “Thorin, what-”

“How can I face them?”

That strained, fearful voice wasn’t Thorin’s. No, it couldn’t be. “What do you mean?”

“How can I even look at them? I have no worth anymore…”

“Don’t be silly, you stubborn dwarf,” Bilbo grunted as he bore part of Thorin’s weight. “You will face them just like you faced every new development of this insufferable journey of ours: like a King would.”

The hobbit’s words seemed to lift Thorin’s heart a little, for the dwarf inhaled and began to ascend the stairs. Bilbo disliked reminding the dwarf that he was a king – after all, if Thorin Oakenshield’s head got any bigger, no door in Erebor would let him through – but it had its uses. Especially since it wasn’t in his power to bodily drag the heavy dwarf to his freedom.

He, however, felt Thorin shudder quite violently the moment the rest of the company came into sight. The dwarf slowed his pace and Bilbo almost got his toes stepped on by the metal-clad boots.

He had no time to ask if everything was alright, however, as Kili’s sight was apparently as sharp as his aim.

“Uncle Thorin!” the young one called out.

“Mahal bless you, we were afraid that-” Fili’s voice caught in his throat as he and everyone took in the state Thorin was in. The sorry mess of a dwarf that they once called King.

Nobody said a word as Bilbo and Thorin neared them; in fact most of the dwarves were avoiding looking at the pair, busying themselves with looking around for eventual patrols. It puzzled Bilbo to see them act this way. For all they had been worried about Thorin’s welfare, they were oddly unaffected, the lot of them. They even seemed… disturbed.

There was pity in Fili’s eyes, and it’s probably what prompted a low growl from Thorin’s throat and tore him away from Bilbo’s side. The King stood on slightly trembling legs, but he held his chin high. “Get us out of here, halfling,” he grunted sharply.

Bilbo’s heart felt a small pang at the offensive word, but he nodded and hurried the dwarves towards the cellar. Thankfully, it wasn’t very far from where they stood, and they soon found themselves only a staircase away from their freedom.

“This way,” Bilbo instructed as he padded down the steps.

They were halfway down the stairs when Bilbo heard the dwarves skid to a halt. He turned around and motioned for them to hurry, but they hesitated. He followed their gaze and saw the cause for their discomfort; the elves passed out on the table. The hobbit rolled his eyes and started gesturing with more urgency.

“Come on,” he whispered, beginning to feel a bit frustrated. He wasn’t going to fail so close to their goal!

It was Thorin who moved first, prompting others to do the same, though their wary eyes never left the snoring elves. Once they were satisfied that none of them was going to wake up, the dwarves actually took some time to look around the new room they were in.

“I don’t believe it,” Kili whispered. “We’re in the cellars!”

“You’re supposed to be leading us out, not further in!” Bofur panicked.

Bilbo let out a frustrated hiss and refrained from stomping his feet like a four year-old. _A plague on those ungrateful dwarves!_ “I know what I’m doing!” he said instead, perhaps a little too loudly, but this bunch of oafs was starting to grate on his nerves. He raised his hands in defeat when he was copiously shushed by the entire group. “Alright, alright, this way. This way.”

He cautiously led them to the barrels which, he couldn’t thank Yavanna enough, had yet to be sent away. He didn’t even dare imagine what he would have done, had that been the case already.

_And now, for the certainly most unpopular part of the plan…_

“Everyone, climb into the barrels, quickly.”

This was first met with silence, which Bilbo was not dumb enough to mistake for acceptance, before the dwarves dissolved in indignant and mumbled protests.

“Are you mad? They’ll find us!” Dwalin growled, crossing his thick arms over his equally thick chest.

“No, no! They won’t, I promise you,” Bilbo begged, and the pleading tone made the Took in him gag. Unfortunately, he had no time to explain his plan in detail, nor did he possess the strength to just _make_ the dwarves follow his instructions. So begging it was. “Please, please, you must trust me!”

But the members of the company only began mumbling with one another, and words such as “crazy”, “raving mad, for sure” and “Bombur wouldn’t even fit in those things!” came to his hobbit ears. Bilbo sighed; there was only so much a halfling such as him could do leading a pack of burly dwarves.

Desperately, he searched for Thorin. He found him on the side, leaning heavily on a guardrail and quite unaffected by the mumbling dwarves. He didn’t look like he had any intention to step in.

But when Bilbo gave him a pleading look, the King sighed and turned to his kin. “Do as he says!” he barked sharply.

Bilbo saw the other dwarves hesitate for a second, and suddenly he feared that Thorin had lost any kind of authority he had over the group along with his hair and beard. It came as a relief, really, when first Fili, then Kili and everyone started climbing into the barrels. They whined and complained and grunted, but they were doing it.

Thorin was the last one to choose a barrel. He kneeled in front of one and, waving Bilbo’s helping hand away, just rolled in the empty barrel and curled himself in a very tight, very silent ball. Much like an injured dog would.

Satisfied, Bilbo hopped towards the lever he had seen elves use to send the barrels away, but before he could reach it Bofur stuck his head out.

“What do we do now?” the toy-maker inquired.

To which twelve other heads appeared and an indecent amount of eyes looked expectantly at Bilbo, waiting for his answer.

And there was only one he could give.

“Hold your breath.”

“Hold my breath? What do you mean?”  

The lever went down, and so did the barrels.


	4. Freed at Last

“Anything behind us?” Thorin asked gruffly, looking like a very drenched, very unhappy cat in his barrel. Well, not as much a cat as a bear, actually.

“Not that I can see,” Balin answered. The old dwarf had a hard time keeping his barrel from spinning out of control. His white hair was plastered to his forehead and over his eyes, but he was the last in line so he could assess the situation better.

Bofur gagged on a mouthful of water and promptly spat it back out. “I think we’ve outrun the orcs,” he gasped, his hat thoroughly soaked.

“Not for long, we’ve lost the current,” Thorin said as he paddled with his bare hands to keep his barrel moving.

That, in Bilbo’s mind, wasn’t all that bad. Whereas all dwarves were provided with some stability, thanks to the barrels, the poor hobbit had none and was left to hang onto Nori’s cask. He was drenched, from head to hairy toes, and there had to be at least as much water in the river than in his stomach. He was glad for the respite.

His plan hadn’t gone as smoothly as he had anticipated. First, it only occurred to him that he had omitted to include himself in the escape plan when the last barrel had rolled down the floorboards and the trapdoor had snapped shut. Fortunately his weight, although ridiculous compared to the heavy barrels, had been enough to open the floorboards again and he soon had found himself waddling in freezing waters. The barrels had still been there, mostly thanks to Thorin’s bear strength as the dwarf firmly held onto rocks, waiting for Bilbo to appear.

But Bilbo’s relief had been short-lived, for they were ambushed in the following hour by elves and orcs. There had been much fighting and much chasing on the orcs’ part, while the dwarves were mainly preoccupied with the water seeping through the sides of their barrels. As for Bilbo, he could just hang onto Nori’s cask for dear life and keep his poor hobbit lungs as devoid of water as possible.

A task he was failing at. Miserably.

And he wasn’t the only one, he realized, as Dwalin shouted: “Bombur is almost half-drowned!”

“Make for the shore!” Thorin barked, paddling over to a small beach nestled between sharp rocks.

The rest of the company followed with approving grunts and shouts of “Aye!” and “Come on laddie, hold fast, we’re almost there!”. Bilbo gratefully let go of Nori’s barrel and swam over to the beach. He clambered out of the icy waters with a groan and just sat on the white pebbles, gasping, his honeyed locks plastered to his skull. Thorin’s barrel washed up nearby and when the dwarf crawled out, he all but collapsed on Bilbo’s frozen feet.

But the hobbit couldn’t find the strength to protest, so the both of them just stayed on the ground; Bilbo on his back, staring up at the cloudless sky, and Thorin on his stomach, breathing raggedly against the pebbles.

All around them, the rest of the dwarves was hitting shore as well. Some didn’t even bother to get out of their barrels; they just lied their upper bodies down on the beach and tried to catch their breath. After weeks of detention, riding a barrel down a very agitated river was a little too much exercise, even for the steadfast warriors in the company.

And they were not afraid to voice it out loud.

“I think I cracked a rib,” Kili moaned, lying on his side.

“At least no dainty elf walked on your head,” Dwalin growled, pulling off his soaked boots. “Balin, brother, is there a mark on my skull?”

“Yes. It is dark, circular, and made with ink I daresay.”

“Your wit is intact, it seems.”

Bilbo raised his head to take a look at his companions. Bofur and Bifur were dragging an exhausted Bombur ashore by the arms. Dori had fallen out of his barrel and was paddling to the beach, sputtering, his white braids half-undone. Fili was the last one to reach the shore due to a violent coughing fit. Everyone else was already on – relatively – dry land, wringing their clothes and hair and beards.

“What do we do now?” Nori asked, voicing everybody’s thoughts after they had had a few minutes to compose themselves.

“We have to keep moving, of course,” Balin retorted, uselessly combing his white beard into submission.

“To where?” Dwalin grunted.

“To the mountain, we are so close!”

“A lake lies between us and the mountain,” Gloin pointed out, gesturing to the endless spread of water before their eyes. “And we have no way to cross it.”

“So then we go around,” Bofur offered, his tone giving away that he himself found the prospect to be a bad idea.

“The orcs will run us down, as sure as daylight,” Dwalin shook his head. “We’ve no weapons to defend ourselves.”

The dwarves kept bickering amongst themselves, reminding Bilbo of that group of old ladies back in the Shire who would just sit on a bench and squabble all day long over this or that. Never settling on anything. A pack of wolves without a leader.

Bilbo looked down at Thorin. Again, the dwarf was not taking part in the discussion, choosing instead to sit and gaze mournfully over the lake at the Lonely Mountain. Whether he was too exhausted to intervene, or he was just ignoring his companions, Bilbo didn’t know, but he had a feeling it was a mix of both. Their crazy ride down the river had shaken Thorin out of his semi-trance, but now that everything was calm once more, the King’s dark mood was resurfacing.

Bilbo hated seeing Thorin torture himself this way. “Dusk will soon be upon us,” the hobbit heard himself say, without making the conscious decision to open his mouth. Still, the dwarves turned to him, and while he wanted to squirm under their gazes he steeled himself. “It will soon be too dark to move on, and we are not crossing this lake by night, one way or another. Our best course of action is to rest here for the night and depart at dawn.”

“But what about the orcs?” Ori worried. “They’ll catch us!”

“We will hide the barrels to make it look like we crossed the lake, and we will make camp far from the river,” Bilbo suggested. “It certainly won’t fool them for long, but we’ll be able to rest for the night, I wager.” Mumbles of protest and doubt travelled to his ears, and the burglar hissed out loud. He had had enough of these insufferable dwarves! “Listen, if anyone has a better idea, now would be a lovely time to share!”

“Master Baggins is right,” Balin said. “We are in no condition to press onwards. Gather up the barrels lads, we are stopping here for the night.”

Reluctantly and with longing peeks at the Lonely Mountain, the dwarves set to their task and began fishing out barrels from the river. Thorin didn’t move an inch, though, his cask gently swaying by his boots. Bilbo worried at his lip and leaned in to offer the King some help with his barrel, when Fili’s surprised shout made him jump.

“There’s fish in my barrel!” the blond-haired prince exclaimed. He grinned excitedly as several dwarves approached for a peek. “Three of them! And they are big, too.”

“Trout, I reckon,” Dori noted with a smile. “Maybe they can pass as dinner!”

At the prospect of food, and moreover food that was unrelated to vegetables, the dwarves cheered and set in motion as though they hadn’t just lived through a very bumpy ride down a river. To their surprise, a couple of barrels also held fish; not enough for each dwarf to have one, but still enough to fill their stomachs nicely.

The assurance that they were going to eat that night put the whole company – minus Thorin - in high spirits and they looked overjoyed with Bilbo’s plan.

“Kili and I are going to scout ahead and find a nice spot to make camp!” Fili announced, grabbing his younger brother by the sleeve. “Come on, Kili!”

“Ori, lad, give me a hand here, I see a lot of firewood lying around near those trees over there,” Dori said. “They’ll be perfect! Gloin, do you still have your tinderbox?”

“Aye, though I must say it is quite drenched. I’ll leave it out to dry. Do you need help with your barrel, brother?”

“What? No, no,” Oin waved dismissively, “not sturgeon, trout Dori said. My hearing is not that bad that I would mistake those too species, Gloin.”

“Indeed…”

Bilbo happily witnessed the agitation all around him; even Thorin had gotten up to roll his barrel ashore. Although, the hobbit couldn’t help but notice that the other dwarves were carefully avoiding their King, as if even crossing eyes with him would scorch them. Bilbo frowned; this wasn’t how you were supposed to act towards someone who had been through a great deal of suffering. Though he couldn’t quite put words on the dwarves’ behavior – was it shame? Fear? Or just plain awkwardness? – he thought it was uncalled for.

_I’ll definitely have words with the lot of them… Dwarven culture or not, this is highly unpleasant, and unbefitting of the company!_

 

* * *

 

 

True to their words, Fili and Kili had found a nice resting place in the shadow of some trees, where rocks would hide them from sight should someone come by the river. There were soft, plump cushions of moss on the ground, which was more than they had hoped.

Gloin and Oin had wasted no time in building a medium-sized fire with Gloin’s abused tinderbox. The warmth was welcomed with appreciative sighs from the dwarves, who all huddled together in their soaked clothes around the golden flames. Bilbo was stretching his abused soles in front of the fire, and he almost purred at the exquisite sensation. For a minute he forgot all about the quest, the mountain and the orcs; all that mattered was the blood flooding into his toes once more.

Bombur was already scaling the fish as best as he could with a sharp rock as Bofur prepared a makeshift spit for their meal to roast. Bifur and Nori had stuffed their pockets full before fleeing the Elvenking’s palace; while Bifur had brought carrots and different kinds of beans, Nori’s hand had wandered elsewhere…

“You scoundrel!” Dwalin almost roared as the thief pulled three bottles of elvish wine from the depths of his tunic. “How did you even manage to get them here without breaking them?”

But the star-haired dwarf just grinned and set the bottles down by a rock.

All things considered, they were going to prepare something close to a feast. Bilbo’s stomach gurgled happily at the prospect. He took off his waistcoat and hanged it to dry, perfectly content to stay in his shirt until the sun set. Not before he transferred his precious ring to a pocket at the back of his trousers, though.

Bilbo watched with half-lidded eyes as the dwarves busied themselves around the fire with various tasks. Most of them, if they weren’t tending to the fire or preparing dinner, were unbraiding their hair to get rid of the tangles the river had left behind. Kili was sitting between his older brother’s legs on Bilbo’s right, and looked quite happy to have Fili comb through his dark hair with his fingers. Actually, the two lads were pressed against Bilbo’s side, and he would have protested if not for the fact that they were radiating warmth in spite of the cold river ride. Which made for a very comfortable position.

So comfortable, in fact, that it took almost an hour for him to notice Thorin was missing.

_Oh dear, where has he gone off to now?_

Bilbo sighed; while he would gladly just stay where he was and let the grumpy dwarf do as he wished, he knew he wouldn’t be at peace until he was sure Thorin was well and safe. So he got to his feet and stretched his arms high over his head.

“What’s wrong, Bilbo?” Kili asked as he looked up at him.

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong Kili,” he smiled to reassure the young dwarf. “I’m just going for a little stroll before it gets too dark. To whet my appetite, that’s all.”

“You mean you are not… hungry enough?”

Twelve astonished pairs of eyes looked up at him then, and Bilbo almost cursed under his breath. Of course he was hungry, he was beyond hungry! But he wanted to find Thorin, and he wanted to do this alone. “I’ll scout around for some mushrooms or fruit, that’ll give me something to do while dinner is getting ready.”

“Do you want some help?” Ori offered kindly.

Bilbo gave him a warm smile; he could feel how tired the youngest dwarf in the company really was, and to have him ready to help regardless sent sparks of affection in Bilbo’s heart. “Thank you Ori, but I’ll manage on my own. Stay here and get some rest, you deserve it.” His eyes swept over the whole company. “You all do.”

Bilbo scampered before anyone could protest. He glanced at the sun and figured that he had at least two hours until it would disappear beyond the horizon. It was a comforting thought; he had no desire to be lost in the woods after sundown.

He allowed himself to hum appreciatively as the soft moss cradled his abused soles. It was like walking on clouds ought to feel like. He looked down and frowned at the cuts decorating his feet; they were many, but the river had cleaned them, and Bilbo wasn’t one to turn his back on small miracles. He wriggled his toes and, when he was sure that nothing was broken, resumed walking.

The hobbit wasn’t sure whom should bear the blame; Thorin, or the other dwarves? True, the company hadn’t been exactly friendly to the King ever since they had met outside the cellar, but Thorin was making it unbelievably difficult for anyone to help. The very fact that he was distancing himself from his people was a testimony to Thorin’s stubbornness. And proof of his suffering as well.

Bilbo hopped over boulders and trudged through bushes, all the while wondering if this was a good idea. Maybe he ought to leave Thorin to himself? Maybe his presence would be unwanted, and he would be told in no uncertain terms to clear off? If he was honest with himself, that wasn’t really what mattered; he _would_ be told to go away, as sure as the sun would rise in the morrow. Hesitation lied in the way he would react to it. Stay, and expose himself to the King’s wrath? Or leave, knowledge that Thorin was fine enough to satisfy him?

Moss disappeared and his soles stepped on soft, large pebbles. There was a small stream running through the bushes, filling the air with low lapping sounds. A small family of sparrows was hopping from stone to stone, sipping from the stream and chirping joyfully.

And watching them sitting on the grass was a very depressed dwarf.

Thorin had his knees drawn up and his head in his hands. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes red, though not from crying Bilbo knew. Those were the eyes of an exhausted, tormented warrior. And there was no way Bilbo Baggins would leave a friend to his dark thoughts.

The hobbit padded over to Thorin and cleared his throat so he wouldn’t surprise him. Bilbo had spent so much time trying to be as discreet as possible in the Elvenking’s palace, he doubted he would ever return to normal. Tiptoeing around had become some kind of second nature to him.

But Thorin just glanced at him, and went back to his silent contemplation of the stream.

“Er… There’s a fire going over there, with the rest of the group,” Bilbo tried instead, scratching at the back of his damp hair nervously. “If you wish to warm up a little…”

“Not cold,” Thorin grunted, never looking at his burglar.

“And dinner will be ready soon, too. Fish, beans, and Nori even pilfered some wine from the elves’ cellar, can you believe it?” Bilbo chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

Thorin merely shrugged, not interested in the slightest. Bilbo sighed; this would be much harder than expected if the King shut himself from the world around him and completely ignored him. Having him growling and shouting at Bilbo to go away would actually be much more reassuring.

Bilbo took a seat on the grass by Thorin’s side. “You shouldn’t stay by yourself, orcs are still looking for us,” he began gently, trying to find a way to coerce the dwarf into following him back to the campfire. “It wouldn’t do to have them capture you, unbeknownst to the rest of us…”

“Is that why you came to find me? To bring me back so you would not have to wonder if I am still around?” Thorin growled, still refusing to look at Bilbo.

“No. I came looking for you because I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“As you can see, I am perfectly fine. Now I would be grateful if you took your leave, burglar. Your presence here is not needed nor wanted.”

_Oh sweet Yavanna, Thorin, why do you have to make everything so difficult!_

“Well, begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” Bilbo huffed, crossing his arms over his linen shirt, “but my _presence_ did not seem to bother you back in that dark dungeon.”

Uncomfortable silence settled on the small clearing, and was broken by Thorin’s heavy sigh. “That was different. I had been alone for several weeks and-”

“Don’t you dare make a fool of me, Thorin Oakenshield!” Bilbo warned, a frown marring his features. “I know what you are trying to do, and let me tell you, this is not working! Pretending you don’t need my help because, of course, it would make you look soft and weak whereas you’re a big mighty warrior? Pushing me away, after all I’ve gone through to get you and your complaining, ungrateful company out of the Elvenking’s clutches? No sir, thank you, I’ll pass!”

If his tirade hadn’t made Thorin more talkative, it had at least gotten the dwarf to turn his blue eyes towards him. And by the Valar, was a surprised Thorin a sight to behold! Bilbo even wondered whether or not he had gone too far, for Thorin spent a few seconds just staring at him, mouth slightly agape and eyes unblinking. Probably taken aback by those words that had come out of his usually soft-spoken burglar’s mouth.

Bilbo was tempted to look away, uncomfortable as he was under those staring eyes. But he had gone too far to give up. “Listen, I know you are hurt, although the worst of your wounds are not physical,” he said gently. “I would be glad if you would just let me help, instead of constantly biting the hand that means to comfort you. It gets quite annoying, after some time.” He finished with a friendly smile, and waited for an answer.

Thorin observed his burglar with a tinge of hesitation, before he finally relented. “And how do you plan on helping me?”

The tone was gruff, but Bilbo mentally cheered. “I didn’t _plan_ anything, nor do I have any idea in particular. It might help if I knew what is troubling you.”

“ _This_ ,” Thorin said as he gestured to himself, “is what troubles me.”

Of course, Bilbo knew which dark ponderings weighed on the King’s mind, he was no simpleton. But he decided to play the fool; after all, there wasn’t much he could do to make things worse than they were.

“Well, it is true you look a bit dishevelled,” he said with a contemplative hum. “Then again, anyone travelling down a river in a barrel would, I guess. This is nothing we cannot fix.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “You know this is not what I meant.”

“Yes, I know. Nevertheless, we can try and make it better.” Bilbo bit his tongue in preparation of his next words, and prepared to dodge should Thorin try to hit him. “I could even up your hair and beard a bit. Make you more presentable, and such.”

“What?” Thorin said, his voice low and very, oh so very dangerous.

Bilbo raised his hands to appease him. “I won’t cut it shorter, I-I swear!” he stammered, stumbling over his own words. “B-but your current state defies logic! And… and maybe that is part of the reason the others can’t look at you right now.” Gone was his previous boldness, crushed and reduced to ashes by Thorin’s scorching glare. “I just mean to help,” he added with a small voice.

Silence stretched for a few minutes this time, with only the sparrows chirping in the background. Bilbo was considering leaving, but when he got to his feet, Thorin spoke up.

“Very well, do what you must.”

The dwarf King was sitting up with as much dignity as he could muster, and the same amount of resignation that one could find in a prisoner sentenced to death. It amused Bilbo greatly, but laughing at Thorin wouldn’t make things easier for him, so he refrained.

As it became obvious that the dwarf wasn’t going to move an inch, Bilbo came to kneel in front of him. He fumbled around in his pockets and drew out a small knife.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed. “What is this?” he growled.

“It’s a knife, I need it if I am to cut your hair,” Bilbo said, rolling his eyes.

“I know that much. What use do you have for it?”

“A good knife is always useful. This one is too small to cut wood, but it’s perfect for peeling fruit or shaving Kings, if you must know.”

Thorin snorted but otherwise stayed silent, and Bilbo took it as unspoken agreement.

The hobbit decided to start with the hair; he had no desire to bring a knife close to Thorin’s throat while the dwarf was still so wary. Bilbo combed his fingers through the black strands and internally winced. He would have to remove more than he had expected, and although there would be enough remaining hair to cover the King’s ears, the latter would not be happy.

Bilbo set to work in silence. Carefully, he cropped the longest strands with precision taught by years and years of chopping up food. To his credit, Thorin only flinched once or twice, when the cold blade came in contact with his cheek or his neck.

After a while, Bilbo grew uncomfortable. He had enough of this silence, of this unfocused haze in Thorin’s eyes. He had to say something, anything.

“You know, back in the Shire, I used to trim ponies’ manes when winter was over.”

Well, anything that wasn’t _dumb_. Or comparing Thorin to a pony.

But Thorin gave a huff that suspiciously sounded like a stifled chuckle, so Bilbo beamed and ran into the breach. “Of course ponies are more pleasant company, needless to say.”

“Why, do you wish for me to neigh and kick your shin?” Thorin harrumphed, but there was no anger in his voice. “I thought you were allergic to pony hair.”

“Which is why I said “used to”,” Bilbo retorted as he worked through some knots. “One day I couldn’t approach them without sneezing, so I stopped tending to them and left that task to a neighbor, Gilmo Proudfeet I recall.”

This time the chuckle was hardly concealed. “So you know your neighbors’ names after all? You do sometimes leave your precious Bag End…”

“Of course I do! Just because I didn’t agree to this journey right away doesn’t mean I spent all my waking time locked up at home,” Bilbo muttered under his breath. “I know my neighbors, I go to the market every week, I fish every two weeks-”

“Point taken,” Thorin interrupted, waving a hand. “I have little interest in the habits of hobbits.”

“Hmph, that is not a very nice thing to say, especially when I myself must put up with so many dwarvish oddities.”

“ _Oddities_?”

“Well, for starters, hobbits have seven meals a day, whereas we’ve only stopped thrice a day for food since the beginning of this journey.” Even as Bilbo spoke, his hands were cutting away at Thorin’s hair, sacrificing as little as he could. “There’s this dreadful… head-butting business, I’ve been told that the closer two dwarves are, the harder the head-butt. I can’t phantom where this ridiculous idea came from.”

Thorin shrugged; either he didn’t care, or he didn’t give it much thought. His eyes were closed and his throat exposed, hinting that he trusted Bilbo enough to let him do as he pleased. It filled the hobbit with so much satisfaction that he allowed his touch to be soft, and more comforting.

“You are all full of secrets, what with Khuzdul, and your secret names, and your secret doors.” Bilbo traced Thorin’s left ear with his finger, stroking the metal clasp there. “Most questions I ask are left without any answer, which I find very odd, but there is nothing to be done about it.”

Thorin gave a non-committal hum, his brow visibly relaxing when his ear was touched.

“Questions such as: why are a dwarf’s hair and beard so important to him?”

Blue eyes opened and affixed themselves on Bilbo’s. Instead of glowering at the hobbit, Thorin shifted uncomfortably, as if ready to bolt. “Bilbo…”

“Do not use my given name to get out of this.”

Thorin gave a heavy sigh. “I couldn’t explain it to you, you have to be a dwarf to understand. Hair and beard… they are very prized possessions in our culture, even more so than gold. They are a dwarf’s pride.”

“And as everyone knows, pride is so much more important than staying alive!” Bilbo hissed. He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but all his pent-up frustration was catching up to him. “You are free, relatively unharmed and standing closer to the Lonely Mountain than you have in decades, and all you can do is sulk out here! So, you had some hair taken away, what of it? Hair grows back, but your life doesn’t!”

Somewhere along his speech, Bilbo’s accusatory finger had begun poking Thorin in the chest. When he realized this, he drew the offending digit back, but his glare didn’t waver. He took more pleasure than was probably acceptable in seeing Thorin’s discomfort; it wasn't everyday he was on the receiving end of the glower.

“There is truth in your words,” Thorin finally whispered. “But centuries of customs cannot be so easily squashed.”

Bilbo’s eyes softened as he looked at the broken dwarf in front of him. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s just… I have a hard time deciphering what is important to you, and what isn’t.” He chuckled quietly. “My mother used to say that if a problem wouldn’t matter in one or two years, then there was no need to fuss over it.”

“Wise words,” Thorin acknowledged. “She must be spending too much time with Gandalf.”

“No, she is not, she… Well, she passed away seven years ago.”

Again, uncomfortable silence and nervous shifting. “My apologies, it was not my intention to bring forth dark memories.”

“I’ve come to terms with it. She is with my father now,” Bilbo said, but sadness tinged his voice despite his words. He busied himself with Thorin’s beard to keep from slipping into grief-stricken thoughts, as he had all those years ago.

Neither dwarf nor hobbit spoke for a few moments. Bilbo carefully cropped the rough hair on Thorin’s chin – he wouldn’t call it a beard, for it was more of a stubble, now, although it was still more than what adorned Kili’s chin. He was almost done, and it was a good thing too, with the sun starting to set.

“If you weren’t so small, I would have qualms about you holding a knife so close to my throat.”

Bilbo found himself smirking. “If I was to kill you, Master Oakenshield, this is not how I would do it. I know for a fact that such a stiff neck as yours would be quite unaffected by my knife.”

“Well, that’s rich, coming from a stubborn, infuriating hobbit.”

“Now, you are just describing yourself, save for the hobbit part.” Bilbo cut away a small tuff next to Thorin’s ear and sat back to assess his work. “All done.”

Thorin shook his head and shoulders to get rid of the fallen hair and looked at Bilbo. “How bad is it? And do not spare my feelings.”

If he were completely honest with himself, Bilbo had seen little hobbits with longer hair. Thorin’s reached just past his ears, without covering them entirely, and the sturdy brush that once adorned his chin had been reduced to a sparse beard barely concealing the flesh underneath it.

“Well, of course, this is nothing like that mane you used to have,” Bilbo said as he adjusted a strand of silver hair so it wouldn’t fall into the King’s eyes. “But you can still braid it if you wish. Oh, which makes me think…”

Bilbo fished around in his pockets and hummed approvingly when his hand closed over something cold. He pulled Thorin’s beads from his pocket and held out his palm for the dwarf to see. “I gathered  them in the throne room, after… well, you know.”

When he caught sight of the beads, Thorin’s eyes widened. “Mahal.” When the blue orbs rose to meet Bilbo’s gaze, the hobbit almost gagged at the wordless wonder they were radiating. Last time he had seen that look in Thorin’s eyes, Gandalf was here, and the wizard was holding a key out for the dwarf to take.

A little put off, Bilbo nervously deposited the beads in Thorin’s larger hand. He had intended to ask about these, if they held any significance or were just random beads that Thorin once bought in a market. But he refrained and only offered: “I could braid your hair now, before it gets too dark, if you want me to.”

Thorin’s head snapped up from the beads and he gave Bilbo a flabbergasted look. _Sweet Eru, he is doing that an awful lot of late… well, for once he is not trying to burn holes through my head, so I’ll consider this as an improvement._

“What is it? Is it bad luck for someone other than yourself to braid your hair? Is it some sort of dwarvish taboo too?” He couldn’t help but sound annoyed; he always felt like he was treading on thin ice with those dwarves, constantly breaking sacred custom after _extremely_ sacred custom. Like that time he had asked Ori if he could teach him some of the runes the young scribe was writing in his journal; who was a simple hobbit such as him to know that the meaning of those runes was yet another dwarvish secret?

To his complete surprise, Thorin actually gave him a weak smile. “No, Bilbo, hair-braiding is not a, ah, _taboo_ as you put it. But it is an act performed only between siblings, lifelong friends, and lovers. When a dwarf is free of braids, he is naked, vulnerable, reduced to almost nothing. Braiding this dwarf’s hair and beard builds him up again as whole, and a great amount of trust is needed to let someone shape you as they see fit.”

“Oh.” Well, this time he had gotten an answer. “Well, I’ve seen you naked. No! No, no, no, I mean, I’ve seen you without braids! It was unintentional, though, you didn’t do it of your own free will, I know!” Bilbo could feel sweat rolling down his back; was there no way to keep his big feet out of his mouth? “B-but since I already saw you without braids, would it be that bad to let me braid your hair?”

Thorin didn’t answer for a few minutes, his eyes lost on the horizon. “We should head back,” he said with an even voice. “Night is upon us.”

Bilbo took a deep breath and sighed. Of course. Trust a dwarf to open up the smallest bit, only to slam closed at first occasion. But he knew better than to push Thorin, and only nodded. “Right. I don’t want to know what lurks around here at night,” he agreed, getting to his feet. “And I daresay I am very hungry.”

They walked back in companionable silence, side by side. The steady fall of Thorin’s heavy boots was oddly comforting, and Bilbo relished in the strong bearing that was once again emanating from the King. True, maybe his composure would crumble in front of the other dwarves, but Bilbo decided to enjoy it while it lasted. In the semi-darkness, he could almost pretend nothing had changed, and that Thorin’s heavy black mane was bouncing with every step. Almost.

Voices floated over to them as they neared the fire.

“Come on Dwalin!” said a voice that belonged to Bofur.

“Oh, very well!” the tattooed dwarf grunted. “T’was by a cloudless and warm night, on the southern border of the Blue Mountains. I was wandering by myself-”

“You’ve told that story at least a dozen times since we left Bag End!” Kili groaned. “A bear attacks you, you kill it with your bare hands, you’re such a mighty warrior, blah-blah.”

“Kili! You’ve ruined the best part,” Bombur complained.

“If my stories bore you, then you should not ask for them!” Dwalin growled, and Bilbo could just imagine the large dwarf crossing his thick arms over his chest.

“See, that’s the very heart of the problem, there are no “stories”, there’s only this one!” Fili pointed out.

“The lads are right, brother,” Balin agreed. “You only ever tell this story with the bear.”

“Well, if the _lads_ are so smart, maybe they have a story of their own to share with us!”

“Well what do you know, Mister Dwalin, we would be most obliged!” Kili cleared his throat. “And even better, it’s about Uncle Thorin! I know you haven’t heard many tales about him, am I right?”

Thorin and Bilbo stopped in the bushes just short of the fire’s light, and shared a look. They were torn between walking up to the group – and possibly dissuading Kili from telling his story because of Thorin’s mere presence – and hiding in the dark to listen in.

Eventually, Thorin slid down and sat against a tree, making his intentions clear to Bilbo. The hobbit flashed him a wolfish grin and sat down comfortably, putting his head in his hands as he directed his attention to the dwarves around the fire.

Kili was standing with Fili, whispering in his frowning brother’s ear. “I don’t know, Kili, should we really be telling this story? I don’t know if Uncle would approve…”

“Oh, Fili, loosen up! It happened almost half a century ago, I’m sure Uncle Thorin wouldn’t mind. And it’s not like Mother can hear us.” Kili then turned to the other dwarves with a flourish and a smile that was threatening to crack his face wide open. “Our story begins on a fine summer morning, in those beautiful lands far, far to the West. Overlooking the Great Sea and shaped by a thousand rivers, those were the lands of the almighty Thorin Oakenshield, and his kin.”

“You could have said “Blue Mountains” and spared yourself the trouble,” Nori cackled.

Kili shot him an unimpressed look and waved a dismissive hand in the thief’s general direction. “Aye, but what would be the fun in that? Anyway where was I?”

“It was a nice summer morning in the Blue Mountains,” Fili filled in, stepping forth to pursue the tale. “Everything was as it should be in Thorin’s Halls, but it was not a day like any other, quite the opposite actually! It was the day of Kili’s tenth birthday.”

“Oh, I remember that day, you two were beardless dwarflings then, barely able to lift a sword!” Dwalin guffawed. “And always following Thorin around like lost pups!”

Both Kili and Fili crossed their arms and shot the bald dwarf a glare to make their uncle proud. “Excuse us, Mister Dwalin, but unless something escaped my notice we were the ones telling the story, weren’t we?”

“I’m sorry lads, do go on.”

The princes grinned at one another. “You first, Fili.”

“Thank you. So, as I was saying before I was very _rudely_ interrupted,” a nasty glance was thrown at Dwalin, who put his large hands up in mock defence, “it was Kili’s tenth birthday. Now you see, Uncle Thorin was always extremely busy at the time, as he was constantly running from one place to another trying to rule over the Blue Mountains. But he had found some time to be with us on that day, he even helped Mother with the meal and nobody was hurt!”

“And _that_ is remarkable enough in itself, since Uncle’s poor cooking skills are a secret to nobody,” Kili added.

At this remark the whole company dissolved into hearty chuckles and shouted some of Thorin’s less than savoury epithets.

“The Soup Burner!”

“The Poisoner!”

“He-who-could-not-stir-a-stew-for-his-life!”

Bilbo chuckled and glanced at Thorin with barely concealed amusement. The dwarf only huffed and shrugged; he was certainly used to this kind of reputation, and the hobbit realized then that he had never seen Thorin help with the meals since their departure from Bag End. He had always pegged it as some sort of royalty privilege, he had no idea that it was sheer incompetence. He wanted to make a snide comment, but Fili began talking again. 

“He ate lunch with Mother and us, and when it was over, he asked Kili what he wanted as a birthday present. First, Kili said that he was happy enough that Uncle had saved a few hours for a family lunch, and that he wished for nothing else.”

The dwarves around the fire started to make cooing noises, which made Kili blush lightly. “I was a kid,” he retorted when someone from the group made a comment about how cute it was.

“Uncle smiled and said that he would still be happy to give Kili a birthday present of his choosing. And I am willing to bet no one here can guess what came out of this numbskull’s mouth then.”

“Oh, oh, a new sword!” Gloin tried enthusiastically. “Or an axe. When he was young, Gimli always asked me for an axe.”

“A pony!”

“A chain mail!”

“A jar of pig manure!” Every single pair of eyes turned to Dori, who squirmed uncomfortably. “What? I heard it helps beard growth, and it’s not like he couldn’t use it!”

“The present I asked for,” Kili interrupted before things spiralled out of bonds – or his pride was further damaged, “was of no material nature. I asked my dear Uncle Thorin for a camping trip.”

There was a strained groan from Bilbo’s left, and he turned to see Thorin hide his face with his hand. “I remember now,” he grunted disgruntledly, making Bilbo giggle. He was enjoying this far too much.

“It was only a week later that we set out, just the three of us,” Fili pursued. “We were riding a pony by ourselves for the first time! True, it was tied to Thorin’s, but still. Mother had had a fit, saying that we would probably fall and crack our skulls, but Uncle gave his word that nothing bad would happen, so we were off.

It was simple enough, really. We would ride for a day down the Vale of Thrain, stray off path a little before we reached Noglond and spend the night in the woods, eating sausages around a fire as Uncle told stories about Erebor and its wealth. We had a tent, and bedrolls, and apples for the ponies, and everything! I remember Kili was literally jumping in the saddle from all the excitement.”

“Of course we learnt a very valuable lesson that day, one that we were not likely to forget,” Kili sighed over-dramatically, leaning on his older brother. “It is almost a law, truly, and can be formulated as follows: whoever travels to a remotely unfamiliar location with Thorin Oakenshield leading the way…?”

“WILL GET LOST!” the entire groupe roared, barking out laughs in the night.

Bilbo almost joined them in their mirth, but he had the good grace to shoot Thorin a sympathetic look. The dwarf only waved his pity away with a huff, as if saying ‘This is nonsense, I have perfect sense of direction, and no, I did not lose my way twice coming to the Shire, mind you.’

“Right, so we rode all day long before it occurred to us that there were no woods in sight, and we had yet to pitch the tent and make a fire before the sun set. All around us, there was dirt, rocks and bushes, but no woods. At that rate we would arrive in Gondamon before long!”

“Now what are you talking about, Kili?” Fili frowned. “Gondamon is in the Low-Lands, it would have taken us more than a day’s worth of riding to reach it!”

“I know what I’m saying, we were near Gondamon, I remember the signs on the road.”

“But you… you were _ten_!” the blond prince hissed.

“And you were fifteen, what’s your point?”

“Augh!” Fili pinched the bridge of his nose to calm down before something regrettable happened to his younger brother. “Fine! Fine. It doesn’t matter. We rode as far as we could, but the sun was setting and an open field isn’t as safe as woods when it comes to camping in that part of Eriador. So Uncle Thorin led us to a small village to spend the night. We were a bit disappointed, but we didn’t really fancy the idea of a wild bear tearing our little limbs apart, so we went along. Though it was summer, it was a chilly night, and Thorin ushered us into the village’s only inn.”

“Which happened to be the village’s only tavern as well,” Kili piped in, “but we didn’t know that until we stepped foot inside and it was already too late.”

“Now, it was a village of Men and most of them were drinking the night away in that tavern. We were understandably impressed by the Big Folk’s height, of course, we didn’t even reach past their middle! But Uncle Thorin clamped a hand on our shoulders and led us to a table in a corner. The Men gave us strange looks, but Uncle never so much as glanced at them. He sat us down, told us to stay put, and disappeared in the crowd.

He came back soon after with bowls of soup and bread and sat with his back to the room. Whereas our camping trip had gone awry, I remember this meal quite fondly, for Uncle Thorin spent it chatting with us, inquiring about our training, our lessons and such. He told us stories about when he was a child, playing pranks on the miners in Erebor with Mother and Uncle Frerin. I remember he even laughed and ruffled my hair, for some reason.”

“As night grew darker, more and more Men started coming in. At first there were only curious glances from across the room, then they began talking amongst themselves. A few of them were snickering and pointing fingers, which was highly impolite but otherwise harmless. We were done with our soup and Thorin was peeling an apple when a group of those ill-mannered, clean-shaved rascals came over to our table.

I remember I almost sat in Fili’s lap from fright, they were so tall! One of them, he had red hair I think, came to stand next to Uncle and he said: “What yer doin’ ‘ere, dwarf? Got nuthin’ better t’do?”.”

Fili gave his brother an unimpressed look. “He most certainly did not talk like this. You are just making this up.”

“Maybe. Well, anyway, those men started bugging Thorin, asking him what he was doing in their town, poking him, even calling him names. Come to think of it, Thorin was incredibly patient, not once did he talk back or get angry. He just kept peeling the apple and cut it in two for us to eat. This seemed to anger the men, and their mocking grew nasty and very crude.”

The company growled and boos erupted from around the fire. Bilbo had only been a witness to a handful of dwarven stories, but it appeared that the audience was duty-bound to react to the tale as it unfolded.

“Still, Uncle Thorin didn’t respond. Kili and I were eating our apple, but we were nowhere near as relaxed as him under the men’s scrutiny. When Thorin said it was time to retire to our room, we were relieved to escape the growing tension and eagerly hopped down from our stools. That’s when one of the men, a fat one with one missing ear, grabbed Kili’s arm and hauled him up, yelling to the whole room about how dwarves actually mated and did not spring from holes in the mountain.”

“And that is when the first punch fell, followed by many others,” Kili said solemnly.

Bilbo chanced a glance at Thorin, and there was grim satisfaction on the dwarf’s face. As if he relished the memory of beating that man senseless. _Well, who could blame him? You just don’t mock people then wave their nephews around as if they were ragdolls._

“I think I still have some of that man’s broken teeth lying around back home,” Kili mused, taping his chin in concentration. “Anyway, I think everything pretty much escalated after that fat man was knocked unconscious. Thorin ordered us to hide, but I was so shaken that Fili literally had to drag me under the table. We saw the whole fight from there.

And what a fight! There were probably ten men who rounded up on Uncle Thorin at the same time. Fortunately they didn’t attack all at once, confident as they were that they had the upper hand and would not be bested by a lone dwarf. Uncle Thorin took out four of them before they realized that they were losing and charged him. It took three men to grab Uncle and throw him on a table, and they only landed a couple of punches to his stomach before he kicked their skulls free of their jaws. There were screams and thumps as bodies hit the ground, and I was clutching Fili, afraid that Uncle Thorin would end up being the next one. But he always escaped his opponents. One minute he was backed away in a corner, and the next he was bashing a man’s head against the counter.

This went on for a little while. When everything fell silent once more, we waited anxiously, and we slipped out from under the table when Uncle Thorin called us.”

“A dreadful sight, he was,” Fili nodded, his expression one of sadness. “He was covered in bruises and cuts. He had a split lip and a black eye, but he was smiling. He fished around his pocket with a bloodied hand and drew out a key. And do you know what he said to us then?”

Caught as they were in the tale, the dwarves didn’t even try to guess and just shook their heads.

Fili and Kili exchanged a boyish grin and, together, said: “Come on, off to bed with you. If your mother learns that I let you up past your bedtime, she’ll never let me take you out for a walk ever again.”

The entire company erupted in laughter, deeply amused at the idea that Thorin Oakenshield thought that being late for bed was worse than a tavern brawl in a parent’s mind. Bilbo smiled fondly.

“We spent a very peaceful night,” Fili said with a soft smile. “As there was only one bed, we slept on either side of Uncle, although I know he didn’t sleep much himself that night. It was selfish, I know, but after he hugged us and kissed our foreheads, I was glad to have him watch over us that night. For I knew no harm would come to us as long as Uncle Thorin was here.

Next day we set out and made for the Blue Mountains, and to this day, Mother still thinks Thorin injured himself by falling off a tree, and not fighting off drunk men. So please, please, next time you see her…”

“Don’t tell on us!” Kili begged.

Fili and Kili grinned at the dwarves’ chuckles and promises to stay silent.

Bilbo took some time to discreetly study Thorin’s face. He had expected the King to be annoyed at his nephews for bringing up such a story, or unaffected at best, but this was not what he saw in the dwarf’s blue eyes. Thorin was watching Fili and Kili with fondness, warmth, and – Bilbo _knew_ the dwarf was not an empty shell! – love. He loved the young dwarves enough to tear down mountains, enough to beat a tavern full of men senseless, if it meant that he would keep them safe.

Before Bilbo could so much as suggest they join the rest of the group, Thorin was on his feet.

When he entered the circle of light, the dwarves immediately fell silent. Fili’s and Kili’s faces, upon sighting their uncle, changed from pleased to mortified. Had he heard the whole story? Was he angry? Should they run?

Thorin’s expression was utterly unreadable for a few moments; even Bilbo, who had become quite adept at those things, was wondering what was going on in the black-haired dwarf’s mind. But soon enough, Thorin’s lips stretched in a tentative smile, and he opened his arms.

Fili and Kili wasted no time in heeding the unspoken request and all but ran into their uncle’s embrace. Thorin wrapped each of his arms around once nephew and all but crushed them against his chest, burying his face in a mix of golden and jet black hair. The younger dwarves had their arms thrown as far as they could around their uncle and were mumbling things that sounded like ‘love you’ and ‘were afraid’ from where Bilbo stood quietly approaching the trio.

Relief flooded his gentle hobbit heart, for he knew that Fili and Kili’s love would help Thorin through this unpleasant phase, and hence turn him back into the fierce leader they all knew. He just needed to know that nobody – since the other dwarves were all looking on with approval clearly visible on their features – thought less of him. That everybody would still follow him until the end of times, not because he would order them to, but because they believed in him and saw in Thorin the only ruler they would ever bend a knee to.

That, Bilbo thought, was a dwarf’s real pride. And not silly chunks of hair and beard.

The hobbit was startled out of his thoughts when he was snatched by Fili and pulled into the hug with the three dwarves. He sputtered and was about to protest but each young prince wrapped a strong arm around his smaller body, crushing any opportunity to escape. Bilbo sighed and caved in with a small smile, as the other dwarves cheered in the background.

They were exhausted, injured, not to mention suffering from the aftermath of nearly drowning in a river. Their rest would be short, and probably colder than even the Misty Mountains given the dampness of their clothes and their lack of blankets. Orcs were looking for them and there was a fair chance they could be ambushed in the dead of night, or in the morning as they tried to press on.

But for a few moments, Bilbo felt like the warmth of Kili’s and Fili’s bodies combined with the comforting weight of Thorin’s chin atop his head was worth all the inconvenience.

 

* * *

 

So when Thorin wordlessly sat down and stuffed his beads in Bilbo’s hand that night, while everyone slept, the hobbit was surprised his heart didn’t implode.


	5. A Hobbit's Pride

“I can’t be of any help if you keep squirming around, Master Baggins,” Thorin growled as he tried unsuccessfully to still Bilbo’s movements long enough to properly assess what damage had been done to the poor hobbit’s feet. “I’d be most obliged if you just stayed put.”

“But it _stings_ ,” Bilbo hissed through gritted teeth. “And it’s even worse when you touch it!”

“Well, dragon fire isn’t known for its soothing properties, you know.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at the insufferable dwarf and whimpered anew when Thorin’s large hands began manhandling his abused feet again. _If only I had longer legs, I would have run faster! And if I had half a brain, I wouldn’t have taunted a live dragon in the first place, either,_ he thought to himself with aggravation. He tried to scoot backwards but soon felt his back hit the side of the Lonely Mountain.

“Please, please Thorin just leave them be,” he pleaded, fighting back tears with all his might. He had travelled miles from the Shire, had fought wargs, goblins and spiders, had fooled the Elvenking himself; he would _not_ cry over burns, painful as they felt.

The look he earned was gentle, but also firm and undeterred. “I will leave them be when I am satisfied that they have been taken care of properly,” he said in a tone implying that there was little Bilbo could do to prevent it. “Now, don’t make this harder than it has to be, and sit still.”

The burglar groaned but relented knowing he was no match for such a strong opponent. In some recess of his mind, though, he was pleased to see Thorin act this way. Ever since that night by the lake, the dwarf’s fire was burning stronger and stronger with each passing day, until the fearless leader was back exactly as the whole company remembered – minus the hair, of course. Quite some time would pass, though, until the day his braids would be of respectable length, but thanks to Bilbo’s support, the King was dealing with that fact quite calmly.

In fact, everything about the dwarf had been calm and collected these last few days. He had had no outburst in Lake-town, even after they had been shovelled with dead fish in those barrels, or forced to swim in frozen waters. Not even so much as a growl as they had crawled up that toilet, and Yavanna knew even Bilbo had found it slightly… gross.

The way the dwarf acted towards the burglar had also known a few changes. Thorin always made sure to keep an eye on Bilbo at all times, and there was something in the blue eyes that left the hobbit wondering just what was going on in that dwarvish mind. Maybe… dare he hope… maybe Thorin had finally found a true friend in him? After all, he _had_ braided his hair that night around the fire, but was it a real act of trust or just a way to thank Bilbo for his support, never to be renewed?

Given the way Thorin’s upper arm had been constantly brushing against Bilbo’s elbow on their trek up the Lonely Mountain, the former was more likely.

Bilbo was brutally brought back down on Arda when Thorin’s fingers brushed against his blistered heel, tearing a howl from his throat. “Goodness gracious, _Thorin_!”

“Your feet are badly burnt,” Thorin observed.

Bilbo’s nostrils flared and he choked on a bitter laugh. “Thank you, I wouldn’t have guessed!”

Thorin overlooked the nasty bite and set the feet back on the ground as gently as he could. “Oin is making some salve to ease the burning, he will bring it shortly. I shall keep watch over you to make sure you don’t run off and do something stupid again.”

“S-stupid?” Bilbo gritted his teeth and glared at Thorin as the dwarf sat down beside him. “I went down in that treasure room, I-I searched for that bloody stone of yours because you asked me to!”

“I never asked you to tickle a dragon and become a lump of charcoal.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I know it seems strange, but it wasn’t my intention,” he said dryly. “As astounding as it may sound, I do not want for the dreadful situations I sometimes find myself in.”

Thorin chuckled. “This I am very disinclined to believe.”

Bilbo was about to hiss something back when Oin approached them with a wooden bowl and a concerned look. “I did my best with the herbs we took from Lake-town, it should ease some of the pain,” the grey-haired dwarf said as he set the bowl down.

“Thank you, Oin,” Thorin nodded. “Could you please tell Kili and Fili to relieve your brother and Dwalin from watch duty?”

“Will do, sir. Do you need help with the balm?”

“No, we will be fine.”

Bilbo startled as Oin walked away and Thorin picked up the bowl. “What are you doing?” he asked, cursing himself when his voice bordered on squeaking.

“I am applying salve to your feet,” Thorin answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He scooted closer so he could prop Bilbo’s legs on his own, with the singed feet dangling in mid-air where nothing was rubbing against them. “Be still, I do not wish to hurt you.”

Bilbo squirmed uncomfortably. “Now, wait a minute, is it really necessary? I could do it myself.”

“Be quiet.” Thorin coated his fingers in the sticky green mixture and made a slight face as the heavy smell reached his nostrils. “This should not take long.”

“Thorin, really, there’s no need to- Oh!” Bilbo gasped as the cool ointment hit his scorched skin, soothing it instantly.

He hadn’t expected it to be so effective, and so quick! First Thorin lathered both his feet with the green substance to ease the blunt of the burning, before he spent a greater amount of time on each appendage to rub the salve in.

Thorin, Bilbo thought, was probably completely unaware of the level of intimacy that was normally required amongst hobbits to care about each other’s feet. Or how delightful it was to have strong, calloused palms kneading his soles and skilled fingers running up his ankles. If his mind didn’t find it to be highly inappropriate, Bilbo would be a mewling and whimpering mess, for there was little he enjoyed more than a good foot rub – save for a warm meal, needless to say.

He couldn’t help but feel a little guilty; here he was, taking advantage of Thorin’s concern while there was a treasure to be recovered and a dragon to be slain. And yet he was really, really enjoying this. To the point where his thoughts muddled together and just lazily sloshed around his head, his consciousness lost to a haze of warmth and comfort. Maybe it was just the knowledge that Thorin was blind to the sweet innuendo his hands provided, or perhaps it was just the dwarf’s hands, sliding up and forth and between his toes…

Bilbo was dimly aware that he was being spoken to, and he sloppily opened eyes he didn’t remember closing. “Hmpgr?” was the best he could do in his state, and he didn’t even find it in himself to feel ashamed.

Thorin gave him a strange look but seemed to shake it off. “I said  most of your feet hair has been singed right off. Most, if not all.”

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open at this and he glanced down at his feet. True to Thorin’s words, they were as smooth – and red – as a newborn’s. He had been so caught up in the searing pain left by Smaug’s breath that he hadn’t even considered the loss of his hair, and realizing it tugged at his heart.

“Oh no,” he heaved. “They are… they are…”

“They are burnt, Bilbo, they will heal in time,” Thorin said in a rather poor attempt at comforting the hobbit.

“No you don’t understand, they are ridiculous!” Bilbo choked. “I’ve seen babes with better feet than those!” He was too scandalized to keep his outburst down, which surprised Thorin. “They’re all smooth and, and, and _naked_!”

Thorin squeezed Bilbo’s feet, gently massaging his soles as he struggled for something to say. “They won’t look so bad once the blisters are gone,” he offered finally. “Though it may be some time until your hair grows again.”

“If it ever grows back, you mean.” Bilbo groaned mournfully and tilted his feet from side to side to fully assess damage. The skin was scorched beyond complete repair, he knew he would bear the marks his whole life, and his hair had probably burnt right down to the roots. He doubted anything could survive that.

Oh, he could almost hear his relatives, back in the Shire! _Look, that’s Bilbo Baggins, first he ran off with a pack of dwarves without any pocket handkerchief, then he slept out in the open at the mercy of wargs and now his feet are hairless!_ This wouldn’t do his already tainted image much good, he guessed, and he was almost surprised that it concerned him so much. He had already done many things that most hobbits wouldn’t deem very “respectable”…

“I won’t wrap them, Oin says the heat needs to leave your feet, and not be concealed in your burns,” Thorin said to break the uncomfortable silence. “But if the salve works as well as it is supposed to, I might be able to lend you my boots to protect-”

“No!” Bilbo wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling he had yelled that last part out loud. Judging by Thorin’s eyebrows snapping up and almost to his hairline, he had indeed. But it did nothing to lessen the horror he was feeling at the dwarf king’s suggestion. “I-I can’t wear shoes! I’m a hobbit, in case you haven’t noticed! No hobbit has ever been known to wear shoes and I don’t want to be the first one!”

“And how will you walk without jostling your injuries? Certainly you can bear it for a short while,” Thorin argued gently, and if Bilbo wasn’t waist-deep in despair, he might have appreciated the dwarf’s unusual caring tone.

“I’ll manage on my own,” he said stubbornly through gritted teeth.

“Though I admire your hardiness, it is quite useless when means to relieve your pain are available. Won’t you just-”

Whatever Thorin meant to say was drowned out by a blood-curling roar coming from inside the mountain. Dwarf and hobbit alike raised their heads in surprise and – on Bilbo’s part at least – fright, when an even more powerful and worrying sound reached their ears. And not only that, but Bilbo could have sworn the whole mountain gave a jolt beneath his buttocks. _What the…_

“The dragon!” Kili cried out as he ran past them.

“Smaug blasted the entrance gate, he’s outside! He’s outside!” Gloin yelled.

Thorin jumped to his feet and only stole a glance down the mountain before he gestured towards the Hidden Door. “Everyone, get in the mountain!” he barked. “Before he finds us!”

Amidst the confusion of the trampling dwarves and Khuzdul curses, Bilbo chanced a peek over the edge of the mountain and rolled back swiftly at the first flash of red wings. His heart skipped a beat and he just focused on breathing, his back flat against the hard ground.

There was a dragon. There was a dragon flying around the mountain. It was one thing to face a dragon inside a treasure room with a thousand opportunities to hide or flee, but it was entirely another to be stuck on a bare ledge while a fire breathing machine was flying around.

“Bilbo!” The hobbit barely registered his name being called before he was swept off the ground and lifted into strong arms. His face was smothered against a solid chest as whoever had picked him up ran wildly to the hidden passage. There was a bellowed command, and grunts of approval as the heavy door was pushed and sudden darkness took over Bilbo’s sight.

And just in time too, for something incredibly strong and _massive_ soon crashed into the side of the mountain, too close to the Hidden Door for comfort. The creature’s shrieks echoed in the dark tunnel as fierce claws assaulted stone, and a raging breath scorched the ledge they had previously been resting on bare of anything that wasn’t plain rock.

After a while, the dragon’s wrath mercifully subsided and the beast seemed to fly away, leaving only silence and desolation in its wake. No dwarf dared make any noise in the dark passageway as everyone waited in trepidation and dread for any sign that the mighty foe might return. Bilbo had his cheek pressed snugly into his rescuer’s chest, said dwarf’s arms still clenched tight around the hobbit from where they had toppled over to the ground when the beast’s strike had fallen. A frantic heart pounded against Bilbo’s ear, growing calmer by the minute as it became obvious that Smaug had gone away.

The hobbit sighed and unconsciously snuggled further into his companion’s body, grateful for the warmth he found there. The earthy scent was quite welcome as well, and if his feet were free of searing pain, Bilbo may even have deemed his situation comfortable. If.

“Are you alright?”

The deep rich voice just above his head stopped Bilbo’s musings as sure as a swing from Dwalin’s axe could stop a warg. Without thinking, he reached up and clumsily felt around the dwarf’s face. Sure enough, his fingers met a rough beard and short hair, confirming his rescuer’s identity.

“Thorin?”

There was a snort. “At least, you don’t suffer from amnesia.” Bilbo felt the dwarf’s head turn and he cringed as Thorin shouted. “Is everyone safe?”

A plethora of grunts and groans blossomed to Bilbo’s right, where he imagined the dark tunnel stretched and many dwarves were scattered on the ground. They were probably much farther too, given how muffled some of the sounds were. Thorin must have been the last one to enter the passage.

“Is Bilbo with you?” came a voice that sounded like Fili, but with dust in his mouth.

Thorin’s arms tightened a little around said hobbit. “Yes, he is. Try and rest a little, all of you, we are in no shape to face the beast right now. And no fire.”

Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief, happy to be spared – if only for a moment – the task of trudging around in the dark, bathed in fear that Smaug might burn them to ashes. Not to mention that tripping on rocks wouldn’t do his burnt heels much good.

Oh. And said burnt heels were currently trapped under a heavy dwarven leg. Right.

“Thorin, please,” Bilbo winced. “You are crushing my feet.”

Thorin muttered an apology and rearranged the hobbit sideway on his crossed legs so the damaged feet hung over his thick thigh, and his arms once more circled the smaller body close to his chest. Perhaps Bilbo was just imagining things, but he could have sworn there was a thumb stroking his shoulder blade. Then again, he was sure the heart beating against his ear was pumping blood at the same rhythm pain was playing drums on his feet.

“You are twitching, are your feet still hurting you?” Thorin inquired gently.

Bilbo had half a mind to make a snide comment about how having dwarves sitting on one’s feet wasn’t bound to improve their condition. But something about Thorin’s caring behavior dissuaded him. “A bit, you don’t happen to have any more of that ointment?”

“Unfortunately, I left the bowl outside. Do you want me to try and retrieve it?”

“But I thought… with the door closed…”

“I can’t open it from inside, but I could go down to the main gates and climb up the way we-”

Bilbo’s hand crept up and clumsily clamped over Thorin’s mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll bear it.”

“Very well.” There was some more shuffling as Thorin settled more comfortably against the wall. “I still wish I could lessen your pain, though.”

“I am fine, Thorin, really. It just hurts a little.”

“Then why are you pulling my hair as if you wanted to rip it off?”

“Oh.” Bilbo hadn’t realized he was still holding Thorin’s hair from when he had tried to identify him. Cautiously, he let go of the silky strands and drew his offending hand back against his chest. “I am sorry.”

“No offense. Though I don’t have much hair left, so I would be most obliged if you just left it alone,” Thorin whispered, and Bilbo was taken aback at the hint of amusement in the dwarf’s words. Was he joking about his own hair? Well, it sounded like it.

Several minutes passed in complete silence, if not for muffled sounds coming from where the other dwarves were probably resting. As the chill from inside the mountain seeped into Bilbo’s bones, the throbbing pain of his burns stood out like a sore thumb. But he chewed the inside of his cheeks and only stopped when the metallic taste of blood flooded his taste buds.

“Once, I had to walk bare-footed on embers.”

Well, this was unexpected. Bilbo raised his head and almost knocked Thorin’s chin in the process, searching quizzically for blue eyes he couldn’t see. “I beg your pardon?”

“When we were young, in Erebor, my brother Frerin dared me to walk on embers without boots.”

“Whatever for?” Bilbo sputtered, blinking.

“We may have been told during our lessons that dwarves could naturally withstand fire, and we may have wished to… gather proof of that ourselves?” Almost sheepish, now, Thorin’s tone. “Anyway, we went down to the forges when the crafters retired for the night. The stoves and pits weren’t lit, and come to think of it, I should thank Mahal they weren’t, for otherwise that day could have been much worse. The great fires were nothing but dying embers, but we deemed it good enough to try. So I shrugged off my boots and, with my younger brother cheering me on, I jumped in.” Thorin paused a while to sigh heavily, sending air through Bilbo’s hair. “I don’t think I ever screamed so loudly in my life after that day.”

Bilbo chuckled at the thought of a tiny Thorin hurrying away from the dying fire with steaming feet, howling bloody murder as he ran around in circles in an effort to ease the burning. “You have my sympathy,” he told the dwarf. “I imagine you got caught, then?”

“Indeed, we were. And by none other than our mother. She cuffed our ears so hard we were afraid they would fall off, as well as from the enormous amount of yelling that went on that night. She woke up half the Mountain before she was done with us.” Bilbo smiled fondly; he was no stranger to a mother’s wrath when her young ones had foolishly put themselves in harm’s way. “Then she dragged me off and tended to my feet. Thankfully the burns were light, and only succeeded in making my father laugh. But it is a story that Dís adores and she never fails to remind me of it every chance that she gets.”

“I can understand,” Bilbo nodded. “Siblings are like that. Well, or so I’ve been told, of course, I was an only child. It must be something, growing up with people who are as close to yourself as anyone can be.”

“No words can begin to describe it,” Thorin agreed, his arms tugging Bilbo a little closer if that was possible. “It is wonderful… yet at the same time, it can bring much grief and pain.”

Bilbo mentally slapped himself; it would have been better to remember what fate had befallen Frerin just a few minutes earlier, and spare himself the trouble of being left speechless. “I am sorry if my burnt feet remind you of your brother and happier times,” he muttered.

“And why should you apologize for bringing forth memories of _happier_ times, master burglar? Are we swimming in so charming an atmosphere that we can afford to banish a few happy memories?” A chuckle rumbled low in Thorin’s chest, under Bilbo’s cheek. “Yes, my brother is long gone, and yes, sometimes I wish he were still here with me. But I have done my mourning and I now wish to remember him at his best. So, in a way, I should be thanking your burnt feet.”

Bilbo winced. “Well, I won’t. If only I had run a little faster, o-or didn’t slow down to look behind me, I would have perfectly respectable hobbit feet as we’re speaking! And not those pitiful excuses for a mean of transport.”

“You could also have run a lot slower and not be alive altogether. I, for one, prefer the way things turned out in the end.”

The hobbit snorted in the dark and crossed his arms over his chest, not caring if his elbow dug a little into Thorin’s ribs. “Of course you do, you have no idea what feet hair means to hobbits! It’s a sign of good health and a matter of pride for us.”

“Much like hair and beards for dwarves?”

“Yes! Yes exactly, that’s-” Bilbo’s reply died in his throat as realization sunk in. He was taken back to that night, not so long ago, when roles had been reversed and he was the one telling Thorin to get over the loss of his hair. Only he hadn’t been as gentle and patient as the dwarf was trying to be.

In this world, you were bound to lose things. You could only be thankful when it wasn’t a relative, a friend, or yourself. What was a little hair compared to that kind of loss?

Bilbo swallowed with some difficulties and uncrossed his arms, debating for a moment before wrapping them around Thorin’s larger frame. There was some hesitation on the dwarf’s side, but soon enough his own arms held Bilbo a little closer. “I’m being stupid, right?” he mumbled into Thorin’s chest.

“No, you are not,” came the reply as a slightly bearded chin came to rest atop his head. “If you were, I would never have let you in on the quest.”

Bilbo gave a dry chuckle. “Well, thank you, Your Highness.”

A few moments were spent in companionable silence and Bilbo was glad for the warmth emanating from Thorin’s body. He didn’t know if it was just the hard press of his chest, or his head’s comforting weight, unless it was the hand resting at the back of his neck and the thumb slowly drawing circles into his skin, but Bilbo felt at peace and ready to doze off.

“I meant it, you know. I am glad you are alive.”

At this Bilbo’s sleepy eyes opened again and he twisted his head up to where he guessed Thorin’s face was. “So… am I?”

“I discovered a while ago that I would be lost without your guidance. If I were to lose you… I don’t know what would become of me.”

Before Bilbo could open his mouth and voice his protest – certainly, he had done nothing to warrant being held in such high regards – Thorin leaned in to deposit a soft kiss upon the hobbit’s honeyed curls, rendering him speechless.

Only for a moment, though.

“Thorin?” he called out tentatively, as if the dwarf was under some sort of spell and speaking too loudly would break it.

Bilbo felt rather than heard the deep intake of breath, and it was only a few seconds later than Thorin spoke up. “Once this is all over,” he said in that deep, rich voice he had used when Bilbo first met him, back in Bag End, although there was a tinge of uncertainty, “once the dragon is no longer in the way, I would like you to remain here.”

“Here, as in, Erebor?”

“In Erebor, with m…” Again, a deep intake of breath. “With us.”

The hand at Bilbo’s nape had long since stopped stroking, and time itself seemed to hang warily as it waited for the hobbit to process what was just said. He was being offered a new home, a new life in some way, amongst people he had come to think of as his most trusted friends. True, it would be entirely different from his life in the Shire, with its quiet mornings and uneventful afternoons; entirely different from everything he had known for a lifetime.

The old Bilbo Baggins would have promptly shaken his head and no, this just wouldn’t do, thank you very much. But this Bilbo had travelled across Middle Earth and had seen much more of the world, wonders and disasters alike, than all of the hobbits in Hobbiton put together.

“Well,” he said carefully, thinking even as he spoke the words, “I won’t give you an answer right away, give me some time to think upon it. But I guess it is just another hole in the ground, and while it could use some redecorating…” Bilbo smirked at Thorin’s grunt, “I might come to like it.”

A heavy weight seemed to be taken from Thorin’s shoulders as soon as the words left the hobbit‘s mouth for he felt the dwarf relax and the hand at his neck gave a warm squeeze. When he spoke again, his voice was but a hoarse whisper, his beard scratching Bilbo’s ear.

“You will always be welcome here, Bilbo Baggins. For all the dangers you rescued this company from on this quest, I will be eternally in your debt.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo would have gladly reminded Thorin of these words a few days later, but he found out the hard way that talking was a tedious business when one’s throat was being crushed by a dwarven hand and one’s feet were dangling in the air a few yards over solid ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And only an epilogue to go, dear readers! Thank you all for following this story, your comments never fail to make my day!


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware the epilogue is longer than any of the other chapters... My bad!
> 
> Edit: I would like to thank KuroCyou for this amazing art of the epilogue, it really made my day! Go and have a peek, it's really beautiful!   
> http://kurocyou.tumblr.com/post/75734136929/sketch-based-on-a-scene-from-the-epilogue-ofthis

 

It was over, Bilbo told himself from at least the fourth time in as many minutes. Over.

Over was the threat that Smaug had embodied for the last century, slain by a single – although mighty – arrow to his breast. From what he had heard, the beast had collapsed into the lake of Esgaroth in huge plumes of smoke, and the mist was still clinging to the surrounding area. Lake-town, if it could still be called as such, had suffered the bulk of the dragon’s wrath and very few houses had been spared his havoc-wrecking flames. But Bilbo remembered the hoots of joy of the company and the sheer happiness in Thorin’s eyes when Roäc, may the old Crow be forever blessed, had flown over to the mountain to announce Smaug’s death. It was the first time that Bilbo had seen the dwarven king smile so broadly. Little did he know, then, that it would also be the last time.

Over was that horrible, horrible battle. “Battle of five armies”, as people took a liking in naming it. For all songs spoke of glory and pride, Bilbo could only remember death. Corpses piling up all around the Lonely Mountain in a morbid blend of red and black, as Dwarves, Elves, Men and Orcs alike met their ends under bone-breaking blows. But worse than those images, the sounds would forever be carved into Bilbo’s memories. Roars and cries, shrieks and bellows, they all mixed and blurred together in the most dreadful composition the hobbit had been given to hear. Even the suffocating stench of death and slaughter that had taken reign over the battlefield couldn’t compare to those sounds that Bilbo was sure would haunt his nights for many, many moons.

And, smallest of all but certainly dearest to Bilbo’s heart, over was his friendship with Thorin Oakenshield. He had betrayed him, stolen the Arkenstone, and given it to the enemy. Or at least the persons Thorin thought of as enemies. Which, irremediably, elevated Bilbo to the never sought-after rank of traitor and almost got him thrown down from the Lonely Mountain without so much as a warning. The pure hatred burning bright in Thorin’s blue eyes was still fresh in Bilbo’s mind, as were the bruises on his throat from the dwarf’s grip as he held him over the edge of the Mountain. Venom had dripped from Thorin’s words as he ordered Bilbo out of his sight and out of his kingdom, and no amount of strength could have kept Bilbo’s tears from flowing as he hurtled down the mountain so hastily that he had almost tripped to his death – which would have hurt less, he was sure, than Thorin’s broken roars of betrayal as they tore through his ears to the point they might bleed.

His friendship with Thorin was dead and buried. So he did not know on Arda why he was sitting by the dwarf’s bed, hoping against all odds that he would make it through the night.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that night, Bilbo tugged the blanket down to check Thorin’s bandages. No blood was seeping through, which immensely relieved him, but he knew it would only be an hour or two before the wounds needed to be cleaned again to stave off infection. Bilbo shuddered at the thought; he knew what lied under those lengths of gauze wrapped tightly around Thorin’s chest. He knew what kind of ruin Azog’s mace had wrecked on the sturdy body; Thorin’s armor had nearly been cleaved in half under the devastating blow that the wretched orc had landed, and his whole body with it. It had taken hours and an indecent amount of stitching to keep the King’s guts from wandering into this world unbidden; the mere thought of it almost made Bilbo sick. He was happy he hadn’t been in the room then, for he was sure he would have fainted and the healers would have found themselves with a second patient on their hands.

Bilbo brought the blanket back up to tuck it under Thorin’s chin. The hobbit suffered from very little wounds of his own, aside from the bruises on his neck and a shallow cut down the side of his face. Which is why he had volunteered to watch over Thorin, a gesture that had left many speechless and, admittedly, a bit suspicious. Why would the halfling care about what happened to the dwarf, after the way he had treated him? Was the hobbit just looking for an opportunity to squish any chance that their King had at survival by, oh I don’t know, slitting his throat as he slept?

Bilbo was well aware what kind of gossip was going on behind his back, but he had little care. He hadn’t travelled across the world to be put off by a few unsavory rumors and condescending looks. Back in the Shire, it had never bothered him what kind of tales were spread unbeknownst to him at the market, and it wasn’t about to change.

He just wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Thorin Oakenshield passed away and he wasn’t by his side when it happened.

There was little he could do, if he were completely honest with himself. Apart from checking the bandages on a regular basis and calling for a healer when they needed to be replaced, as well as watching for any sign of fever, he spent his days holding Thorin’s large pale hand between his own and gazing helplessly at the dwarf’s prone body. Heaving pitiful sighs of relief as the damaged chest rose for a breath. Breaking in cold sweat as he fumbled around for a pulse that he was too shaken to find.

His nights were just as restless. More often than not, when he was sure nobody would enter the tent Thorin was resting in for a few hours, Bilbo caved in and curled up on the bed next to the dwarf. There, he would cry until his eyes were red and Thorin’s hair thoroughly soaked. Oh, the unfairness of it all! Had they really tried, tried so hard, only to fail so close to their goal? Had Thorin suffered through decades of pain and bitterness, only to meet his end at the very feet of the mountain he had dreamed of for the past century?

And not only that, but the Line of Durin itself was teetering on the edge of inexistence. Somewhere out there, in other tents, Kili and Fili were hanging between life and death. Though, unlike their uncle, they had been denied the bliss that came with unconsciousness and could often be heard wailing incoherently and screaming. Someone, Bofur maybe, had informed Bilbo that the brothers were fighting a very potent orc poison in which the arrows they were injured with had been dipped. They were delirious, most of the time, and hardly slept. The elven healers were doing their best, but this poison was unheard of and very hard to control.

So when the screams stopped from time to time, Bilbo didn’t know if he should feel joy or grief.

The hobbit ran a hand down his face to compose himself, wincing as his fingers grazed his cut. It was the dead of night, and everyone was probably sleeping. His own eyes were prickly and he decided that there wasn’t much he could do for Thorin until the morning, when he would try – with little success, if these last days had taught him anything – to feed the dwarf some honey diluted in water. And only end up cleaning a sticky beard.

Bilbo climbed on the bed and lied on his side, trying his best to slip under one of the blankets without jostling Thorin’s wounds. The hobbit winced as the rough wool brushed against his still sensitive ankles; for all the balm he had applied to the abused feet, the blisters were still there and his skin was so taut he was afraid it would split open at first chance.

Carefully, he settled in beside the dwarf and nuzzled into a pillow, his eyes never leaving Thorin’s face. If Bilbo overlooked the cuts and bruises littered on the dwarf’s pale features, he was the perfect image of peace and serenity. The light from the single candle by the bed gave his skin a golden hue – which, in Bilbo’s opinion, was far better than the sickly tinge Thorin was currently graced with – and gave an impression of warmth.

Without thinking, Bilbo’s hand reached out and combed through the still too short strands of dark hair. It had been mated with blood and sweat, and he had taken extreme care in washing it thoroughly. It had taken an entire morning to undo the braids meticulously, rid the hair of gore and then weave the beads through the strands once more. Now, it felt like silk beneath his fingers and he was glad for it. The few dark looks from unknown dwarves he had earned as he was performing the task were well worth it.

Bilbo smiled weakly as he tried to picture how Thorin would react if he learned that others had seen a hobbit braid his hair. Would he be furious? Unaffected?

“I bet you wouldn’t give a crap,” Bilbo whispered affectionately, his hand still stroking Thorin’s hair as gently as he could. “You would glare for some time and ask them if they are so idle that they felt they could make it their business to report who braid whose hair in the camp.” He chuckled quietly, bitter tears threatening to spill. “Oh, yes, you’d definitely say that, you evil dwarf.”

Bilbo’s hand left Thorin’s hair and cupped a battered cheek. The hobbit took some time to decide if the swelling on the dwarf’s nose had reduced – it was only normal, the healers had told him, for a broken nose to swell after it was repaired – and when he was satisfied, he leaned over carefully to lay a soft kiss on Thorin’s temple, minding the cuts.

“I will see you in the morning, don’t you dare go anywhere,” Bilbo mumbled, a lone tear escaping the tight barrier of his closed eyelashes and rolling down his cheek. “Good night Thorin.” 

Then, exhausted from a day of stressful waiting and with his hand firmly clenched around much larger fingers, Bilbo Baggins slipped into an uneasy slumber, Fili’s whimpers the only thing that broke the heavy silence of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

_“How could you do this? How could you betray me so?”_

_Bilbo clawed at the hand around his throat in a fruitless attempt to loosen the iron grip. Useless, he knew. “Thorin,” he rasped out pleadingly. “I swear, I didn’t-”_

_“You stole my most prized possession,” Thorin snarled, as his hand tightened even more around Bilbo’s neck. “You had no right yet you stole it. And then you went and gave it to the worst person I have ever known! Don’t you remember what he did to us?” Thorin used his free hand to tug at his dark locks. “Don’t you remember what he did to_ me _?”_

_“He… Thranduil… he didn’t want a war,” Bilbo gasped. Being dangled in mid-air was not making matters any better, especially when the promise of a deadly drop down a mountain lied beneath his squirming feet. “I did it… to save you all…”_

_“Shut up, traitor!” Thorin’s eyes were drilling scorching hold into Bilbo’s, hatred and fury clearly visible in the blue orbs. No, not blue anymore, but black and soulless. The eyes of a mad beast. “I trusted you, had faith in you, I would have welcomed you into my kingdom, but you betrayed me! I gave you my friendship and you dragged it through the mud! You wretched hobbit!”_

_The fist tightened its hold, and at that point Bilbo was quite sure his face was a tad blue. Yet Thorin’s words hit him harder than any whip would. He forced his tears back and struggled to speak up, his hands clamped around the dwarf’s thick wrist. “Thorin, it’s… you’re not yourself… it’s the gold, Thorin, the gold-sickness… you have to let go…”_

_The mad glint was back in Thorin’s eyes, and he smirked in a way that made Bilbo’s stomach lurch in cold fear. There was nothing amusing or reassuring in that smirk, only a feral flash of white teeth and an unspoken promise of pain. “You want me to let go, master thief? Very well… I shall see that your wish is granted!”_

_To Bilbo’s horror, Thorin pulled his arm back a little and, with enough strength to knock a dragon out, hurled the hobbit over the edge of the Mountain._

_Bilbo was only dimly aware that he was screaming his teeth off as he plummeted down, head first, and he could only watch helplessly as the rock hard ground came closer, and closer, until…_

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo awoke with a cry and cold sweat plastering his curls to his forehead. Panting, a hand pressed over his chest to gain control over his raging heart, it took him a few moments to remember where he was.

That nightmare, again. For the third night in a row, now. Goodness gracious.

The hobbit sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around his bent legs, burying his tear-stained face in his knees. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself that he had acted for the greater good, that he was trying to avoid seeing people die, his subconscious was still riddled with guilt and made him pay for it each and every night since then.

He had betrayed Thorin’s trust, by stealing his most precious heirloom and giving it over to the enemy. And not just any enemy, but Thranduil, the Elvenking, the one who had shamelessly ordered Thorin’s hair to be cut down and his pride to be shattered. But there had been an entire army of elves waiting patiently down the Mountain, and Bilbo had been afraid, so afraid to see his friends hurt or killed that he had given up the Arkenstone. Hoping foolishly that Thorin would see the reason behind this act and forgive him, in time.

Time. A rare commodity if there ever was one.

Bilbo wearily wiped his forehead and through the mist of muddled thoughts, it occurred to him that he shouldn’t be sweating so much, nor should he be so uncomfortably hot. True, his nightmares always made him feel a little overheated, but the early winter nights were fresh and the sun was still very young that morning. The warmth was puzzling… unless…

The hobbit looked down at the other occupant in the bed, and noted with some degree of worry that there was a fine layer of sweat covering the dwarf’s face and upper chest. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Bilbo reached out and put the back of his hand against Thorin’s cheek. Only to snatch it back, as if scorched.

The King was burning up.

“Fever,” Bilbo muttered, yet the words escaped him as if they held no meaning. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Thorin’s battered and flushed face. “Fever.” Louder this time, and with it came realization. If there was a fever then at least one of the dwarf’s wounds was infected. “Fever!”

Bilbo jumped out of bed, not even caring as his injured feet landed on hard ground and cracks burst open along his sensitive soles. Never mind that his hair looked like a family of damp rats had made itself at home on his head, or that his waistcoat was horribly distorted. He had to get help, he had to, before… before it was too late.

“Thorin’s got a fever!” he shouted as he ran out of the tent, praying fervently for somebody, anybody with knowledge in the healing department, to hear him. “Please, he’s burning up! Anybody!”

Luckily, an elven healer was already making rounds between the tents and swiftly approached him in a flurry of light green robes. “When did the fever appear?” he asked.

“I-I don’t know, at some point in the night, I guess! He was already awfully hot when I woke up,” Bilbo stammered, hurriedly leading the elf back to Thorin’s tent.

“You don’t know? Weren’t you supposed to watch over him, halfling?” the healer said with more bite than was absolutely necessary, pushing away one flap of the tent to follow Bilbo inside.

“I am watching over him, I just…” The hobbit sighed and massaged his throbbing skull; he was in no mood and far too sleep-deprived to engage in a battle of wits against an elf. Even less when there were much more important matters at hand. “Listen, this is not about me. I led you here because I thought you could help him, but if I am mistaken then I shall take my leave and scout this whole camp for a real healer!”

He hadn’t meant to shout, really. But his nerves were on fire and his patience was thinning with every second that was not spent actively helping Thorin.

The elven healer frowned for a moment, but his features soon softened as he took in Bilbo’s dishevelled state. “You needn’t speak so loudly,” was his only comment before he leaned over Thorin’s bed and felt its occupant’s forehead. “Indeed, he is very hot. Infection probably settled in.” The elf’s perfect nose scrunched up in some sort of wince. “We need to act quickly. Halfling, go and get Cithiel, she will have the proper herbs and balms to kill the fever. Then bring me fresh water, bandages, and large scissors.”

Without even wasting time asking who Cithiel was, or at least what she looked like, Bilbo nodded fervently and ran out of the tent for the second time that morning.

It cost him about ten minutes and a dozen new scrapes on his ankles, but he found the dark-haired elf grinding herbs together beneath a willow tree. She readily got to her feet him as soon as he mentioned the other healer who was asking for her. Thankfully, she knew where Thorin’s tent was, so Bilbo made a bee-line for one of the biggest tents where he knew the wounded were being looked after.

The hobbit almost squealed in delight as he caught sight of Oin, who was cleaning blood from a stitching needle.

“Oin!” he called out. “Oin!”

“Well, laddie, why the rush?” the old dwarf asked, a little puzzled at Bilbo’s behavior.

“It’s Thorin! He is feverish, I need to bring the healer some things!” Bilbo stammered in-between pants. He wished he had some more minutes to explain, but unfortunately he had to cut it short. “He wants fresh wanter, bandages, and your biggest pair of scissors!”

The prospect of Thorin developing a fever drew all color from Oin’s bearded face and the dwarf clambered to his feet. “Right back!” he shouted as he fled the tent, only to come back seconds later with the items Bilbo had asked for, and more. “Grab the bucket of water near that bed, and lead the way, Mister Baggins! I’ll be dead before I let those elves take all the credit for saving Thorin Oakenshield from death!”

The two of them hastily made their way to Thorin’s tent where two elves were already fussing over the bed, throwing blankets aside and unwrapping bandages. There slender hands were soon joined by larger, more calloused ones as Oin assisted them, all the while grumbling something about elves being so slow that Thorin had time to die of old age.

Only when the three healers were around the bed that Bilbo allowed himself to breathe. He had done everything he could, and he wasn’t about to offer his help since he knew it would be – less than politely – declined. Thorin’s wounds would be looked after by three very capable healers, and everything would be well.

 _Everything will be well_ , Bilbo repeated and, for the first time realizing his legs were shaking out of control, went over to sit down on a stool in a corner.

Where he promptly fainted.

 

* * *

 

 

When Bilbo found his bearings again, the first thing he saw was a very relieved pair of brown eyes.

“He’s awake!” Bofur’s cheerful voice rang out. “Oi, Oin, Bilbo’s waking up!”

The hobbit groaned, his sensitive ears ready to split open from the dwarf’s boisterous tone. Why would dwarves never be quiet about things?

“You gave us quite the fright, laddie, collapsing like that,” Oin chided from somewhere to his right. “Almost busted me old heart!”

“Where am I?” Bilbo asked groggily as he sat up. He was surprised to feel a plump mattress under his body and a warm blanket sliding down his front. At which point had he been transferred to a bed? And why in Eru’s name did his head give off the impression that it had been used as an anvil?

“You are in the wounded’s tent, I had Bofur carry you here after you passed out,” Oin explained calmly as he pushed a mug of water in the hobbit’s grateful hands. “He and Ori’ve been watching over you all day.”

All day? But this wasn’t right. He clearly remembered waking up in Thorin’s tent, shaking his thoughts free of a particularly nasty nightmare, and then-

Oh.

Oh the shame. He had fainted like a squeaking fledgling when Thorin needed him. He had succumbed to fear and shock as others pushed themselves past their limits to make sure the King would live. Thorin was right, he really _was_ a betrayer.

Bilbo felt pathetic, and even more so as frustrated tears began prickling at his eyes. It was a wonder that he had any water left in his small body, after all these hours spent crying about things he had no control over.

Bilbo swallowed hard and only asked softly: “Thorin?”

“His fever is under control, but it will get worse before it gets any better,” Oin said.

The hobbit nodded absently. “I’ll see to him.”

“Oh no, not right now, you won’t.” Bofur put a large hand on Bilbo’s chest and prevented him from getting up. “You need rest, and plenty of it I wager. Oin spent hours patching your feet up, yer not putting them on the ground today!”

“Patching my feet up?” Bilbo repeated, his face scrunching up as he tried to remember doing something to hurt his feet. He tried to wriggle his toes, only to find them trapped by some sort of tight gauze.

“Aye, bleeding all over the ground, you were,” Oin agreed, nodding solemnly. “A sore sight, terrified our young Ori even.”

“I was not terrified,” came the small, mildly offended voice from a bed to Bilbo’s left.

The burglar turned his head and sure enough here lied Ori, propped up against a pillow with a leather-bound book splayed across his lap. The young dwarf’s face was littered with fading cuts and bruises, and apart from his heavily bandaged left arm that was tucked under the blanket, no serious injury stood out. A small sparkle of joy fluttered in Bilbo’s heart at the knowledge that at least some of his dearest companions had escaped the fight relatively unscathed.  

“Well lads, I hate to leave you all, but I must check on Fili and Kili,” Oin said as he got up from his chair. The old dwarf’s bones cracked and the wince that quickly passed over his features was not lost on Bilbo. “These damned elves may be good-for-nothing rascals, but they know a thing or two about poisons, and the young lads are getting better.”

With a nod and a promise to hunt Bilbo down if the hobbit so much as set foot out of this tent before the night was over, Oin was off into the dim light of the evening.

“I’ll get you lads a bite to eat, I bet Bombur’s at it already,” Bofur winked with a good-natured smirk. The heavy bandage around his neck was doing little to dampen the toy maker’s cheerful disposition. “What would you like best?”

“Anything that doesn’t need to be cut,” Ori grumbled, eyes still on his book.

There was a flicker of sadness as Bofur glanced at the young scribe, but it died before Bilbo could make anything of it. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” the black-haired dwarf promised as he exited the tent.

Bilbo sighed and tried to get comfortable, for there was little chance he was leaving this bed anytime soon with Oin and Bofur standing guard like protective hounds. He would just have to escape and go to Thorin first thing in the morning. Assuming the King wasn’t already dead by then.

As a cold shiver ran done the length of Bilbo’s spine, the hobbit shook his head. Thorin would be fine, he had to be. The company needed him, the whole kingdom needed him, not to mention his nephews as well. What good would cheating death bring to Fili and Kili, if they only woke to discover their uncle gone from this world? No, Thorin would be fine.

Bilbo tried to distract his mind from the fever-raked dwarf struggling in another tent, and he turned to Ori. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you after the end of the battle, but I’m glad to see you are well,” the hobbit said with a small smile.

The young dwarf abandoned his book in favor of looking at Bilbo. “Ah yes, Oin tended to me almost right away, I was luckier than most chaps on the battlefield. It doesn’t hurt much anymore, though I do feel tingles where my fingers used to be.”

Bilbo blinked. “Used to be?”

Ori tilted his head to the side, puzzled at Bilbo’s question. “Well, yes. Nobody told you?”

At Bilbo’s shake of his head, Ori retrieved his left arm from under the covers, and the hobbit’s stomach lurched in pain and empathy when his eyes fell on the dwarf’s hand. Or rather, his lack thereof. The heavy bandage stopped at mid-forearm in an obscene, horrible stump, and left Bilbo staring with his mouth open uselessly. It was highly impolite, he knew, but shock had taken over his mind and it was all he could do not to dissolve into pitiful tears again.

“Oh, Ori… you… how…” he rasped out, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Crushed between an orc mace and a rock,” the young scribe filled in. “Oin said it was beyond saving and cut it off.” A small, sad smile graced his thin lips. “I was lucky, though, that it wasn’t my writing hand.”

 _Lucky?_ Ori wasn’t entirely wrong, at this point everyone was more or less lucky to just be alive and not sitting in the Halls of Mahal, Mandos, or whatever deity would accept their mangled souls. Yet his hobbit heart bled for the young dwarf’s loss. Ori would never be able to wield his trusted sling-shot again, let alone any other dwarven weapon. His warrior’s life was over, and while he still had his writing hand, his activities as a scribe would be heavily burdened by the absence of his left fingers.

Telling Ori that he was sorry for him felt oddly cheap, but thankfully he was saved by Bofur returning with two steaming bowls of stew and the apparently extremely good news that both Fili and Kili were throwing up black stuff.

Thank goodness… right?

 

* * *

 

 

Dawn was creeping on the horizon when Bilbo was finally able to find a crack in Oin’s vigilance and padded out of the wounded’s tent as silently as he could with bandaged feet. Though it brought a whine out of him, he did his best to stand on his tiptoes and sneak between tents until he found the one he was looking for.

He was surprised to find the dark-haired elf healer from the day before – Cithiel, her name was, he remembered – sitting by Thorin’s bed and dabbing at the dwarf’s forehead with a wet rag. While the tension between Dwarves and Elves had been somewhat alleviated by their fighting against a common foe, Bilbo wasn’t so dim-witted as to believe all bad blood had been cleared, especially with Thorin’s attitude before the Orc army arrived. He had expected the elven healers to do their job and then leave Thorin alone, so finding one still caring after the King was a bit off-putting.

Cithiel’s sapphire blue eyes turned to Bilbo as soon as he set foot in the tent, her thin lips stretching into a small smile. “I had a feeling you would come to him,” she said softly, draping the rag over a bowl sitting on a stool.

“Well, I… yes,” Bilbo stammered rather lamely, shuffling his injured feet nervously under the beautiful creature’s eyes. He didn’t know why he was so uncomfortable. He cleared his throat to compose himself before he asked: “How is he?”

“The fever is still quite high, it hasn’t subsided yet.” Cithiel gave Thorin a concerned look before she rose to her full height and smoothed out her white robes. “But his kin is renowned for their hardiness, I do not despair for this one. You will need to keep him hydrated, and cool him down with fresh water as often as you can. He may shiver but do not cover him too much, the heat mustn’t be trapped within his body, which is why I divested him of most layers of clothing.”

“Oh, that’s very thoughtful of y- I mean, what?” Bilbo did a double take at the elf’s last words, which seemed to amuse the Firstborn.

“Fear not, master hobbit, his privacy remains unsoiled.” Before Bilbo could tell her that was entirely too much information and that he wasn’t the guardian of Thorin’s _privacy_ as she called it, Cithiel gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Have hope.”

And with that being said, she was gone.

Fidgeting awkwardly at the knowledge that the dwarf king was relatively unclothed – to which extend he didn’t know exactly, but he wasn’t about to lift the blanket and find out – Bilbo sat down next to the bed.

Thorin was a sore mess. A thick layer of sweat coated his face, his neck and his broad shoulders, and his breathing could be compared to uneven pants. Slight shivers racked the heavy body as the dwarf twitched uncomfortably.

“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo lamented as he instinctively reached out to cup the heated face. “You don’t deserve this.” He stroked flushed cheekbones with his thumbs, tenderly wiping sweat from dark whiskers. He leaned in to touch his forehead to Thorin’s burning one, brushing the ghost of a kiss to the damp hairline. “You’ll get through this. I’ll make sure you do.”

Bilbo snatched the rag and dipped it in cold water before he ran it down Thorin’s face and neck. The slight shivers grew a little stronger but it seemed to ease some of the dwarf’s suffering, for his breathing returned to normal for some time, and it gladdened Bilbo’s heart to be able to help, to actually help.

So the hobbit’s next hours were spent tirelessly lathering Thorin’s face and upper body – yes, at some point Bilbo had worked up the courage to tug the blanket down to the dwarf’s waist, if only to heed Cithiel’s advice and let the heat escape – washing sweat away and replacing it with temporary coolness. Every now and then, he would grab the mug of honeyed water he had fetched from Bombur and try to make Thorin drink some. Of course, most of it ended up in his beard or on the bed, but a decent amount flowed down the dwarf’s throat and it was satisfaction enough.

People came and went, healers mostly, with the occasional pat on the back from Bofur or Gloin. But still Thorin’s fever persisted, and still Bilbo strove to bring it down.

Sometimes, the King would whisper words, lost as he was in delirium. Most of the time they were Khuzdul words, and their meaning was lost on Bilbo. But there were times when Thorin would speak Common Tongue, strained, groggy words that were little more than groans.

As was the case now.

“No, not here,” Thorin panted. “No…”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Bilbo cooed as he dabbed at the dwarf’s forehead with his rag. He would soon have to replace the water, for it was blurry and not that cold anymore, but he would wait for dawn or for someone to come by. The former was more likely, since it was probably the middle of the night. “I’m here. You are safe.”

“The dragon…”

“Smaug is dead, Thorin. He’ll never bother you again.”

“Fili… Kili… Bilbo… Bilbo…”

“Yes, that’s me, glad to hear you use my given name so easily,” the hobbit sighed, combing raven strands back to have free access to a burning forehead. “Even if you’re unconscious.”

“Bilbo… _âzyungel…_ ”

“So you keep saying, but I don’t know what you mean, Thorin.” Bilbo tucked a braid behind the King’s ear, taking a moment to trace the round shell with a finger. “It would be nice to have someone to translate Khuzdul for me when you speak.”

“Did someone call for a Khuzdul interpreter?”

Bilbo startled at the sudden voice and almost dropped his rag in his hurry to turn around. He was then faced with the two most insufferable dwarves in the history of Middle-Earth.

Fili and Kili were leaning heavily on one another, all shaking limbs and pale faces as they gave Bilbo their best impression of a smug grin. They were dressed in simple breeches and tunics, white gauze peeking out from every hole in the garments. There was a bandage around Fili’s head, masking his right eye, and Kili’s beard was riddled with stitches. It was clear from their bare feet and pants that they had escaped without proper consent.

Bilbo felt speechless for a few seconds, but then he frowned. “You blundering idiots!” he hissed. “You should be in bed resting, and not prancing around like ponies!”

“Aye, but ruggedly handsome ponies,” Kili grinned.

Something snapped in Bilbo and his resolve to scold them disappeared. The hobbit walked over to the two young dwarves and enveloped them in a heartfelt, if not very tight, hug. “You frightened me half to death, you fools,” he muttered, burying his nose into  their chests as they wrapped their own arms around his smaller frame.

“You mean right now, or when we almost died?” Fili said lightly.

Bilbo huffed and gave the blond scamp a half-hearted swat. “Both, you oafs! Don’t stand like that, sit down, no wait just a moment!”

The hobbit let them go and grabbed a makeshift bed that Bofur had put up so he could sleep in the same tent as Thorin. Of course, Bilbo never slept in it, afraid as he was that Thorin would need him in the middle of the night and he would be too far from the dwarf to realize. With some grunts, Bilbo managed to drag it next to Thorin’s bed for Fili and Kili to settle down.

“There,” he panted. “You should not be on your feet, I’m sure you are aware.”

“So we’ve been told,” Fili simply shrugged as he manoeuvred his younger brother on the bed and plopped down himself with very little grace. “Then again, according to dwarven healers, we ought to be dead by now, so…”

“We wanted to see you, and Uncle,” Kili explained, relieved to be sitting down. His eyes were roaming over Thorin’s body, trying to assess the gravity of the situation. “How… how is he?”

“Stable, though not improving,” Bilbo sighed, plucking his rag from the bowl to run it over the portion of Thorin’s chest that was not hindered by bandages. “His fever is still high, but the healers made sure his wounds were clean. I just try to cool him down, feed him liquid things, and I listen to his blabbering when he’s delirious.”

“Sounds like married life,” Kili chuckled, only to wince and grab his ribs. “ _Mahal_.”

Fili gently nudged his brother into a lying position to relieve the pressure on his ribcage. “Hush, will you, else they’ll find us and drag us back into that piss-scented tent.”

Kili groaned and let his head fall back onto the straw mattress, his hair scattering all around in messy, greasy strands. “I would give half the treasure in Erebor for an opportunity to wash my hair,” he moaned.

“While you’re at it, wash the whole package,” Fili snorted. “You smell worse than a warg.”

“Like you can talk, you smell like a goblin’s arse. A dead goblin.”

Bilbo would have normally scolded them for bickering like toddlers, but he was so glad that he just chuckled and kept tending to Thorin. The lads were safe and sound, and if they had enough strength to squabble, then they would recover quite nicely. Dwarves really were a hardy folk.

“Even Uncle Thorin, who is still unconscious, has cleaner hair than you,” Fili teased.

“Ah, yes, I wash and braid it almost every day,” Bilbo said, giving Thorin’s beard a good rub. “I’m sure he’ll want to attend a meeting as soon as he wakes, this way he’ll be properly groomed when that happens.” When he received none of the chuckles he expected to hear, Bilbo turned to the young dwarves, and was surprised to see them staring at him wordlessly. “What is it? Dwarves don’t hold meetings?”

“You braided his hair?” Fili asked in a whisper.

“Yes. Oh, alright, I understand.” Bilbo offered them a small smile. “I know this is very important for your kin, but Thorin gave me permission to do it.”

“While he was unconscious?” Kili asked, his dark eyes suspicious. Oh dear, dwarves did not take this lightly, did they?

“No, that night after we escaped the Elvenking. He gave me his beads and asked me to braid his hair.”

“He asked you?” Fili repeated, blinking quite comically.

Had his head wound somehow impaired his hearing? “Yes, he did.”

Fili and Kili exchanged a glance and unspoken words were passed on between the brothers. It unnerved Bilbo a little bit but he chose to let it go; after all he was used to this secrecy. And he couldn’t blame the brothers for being surprised, for he knew this was a serious matter for dwarves.

“Bilbo…”

The hobbit snapped his head up at Thorin’s whine. “Ah, see? I’m always on his mind,” he joked softly, chest puffing up in mock pride.

“Does he always call for you?” Kili asked, a bit disturbed by his uncle’s state.

“No, sometimes he calls for you two, or the dragon, or he just says things I don’t understand.” Bilbo put his rag down on his knees to tuck the blanket up and over Thorin’s chest. Those shivers were getting a bit out of control.

“Bilbo… _âzyungel_ …”

“See! He says that a lot, but I don’t know what it means.”

But Fili and Kili had gasped at the same time and were once more looking at one another, though this time their eyes were a bit wider and their mouths slightly agape. This worried Bilbo; was it bad? Some kind of insult perhaps? Now he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but still he swallowed and asked: “Is it that bad?”

“No, of course not, it’s just… well…” Fili cleared his throat as Kili smirked, clearly amused. “I’m not sure we should be the ones telling you this. It’s better if you wait for him to wake up and tell you on his own.”

The answer didn’t satisfy Bilbo. “There is still a chance that he’ll never wake up,” he pointed out, and with those words there was a sharp tug at his heart. Yet, it was the truth.

“If that happens, then we’ll tell you.” Fili nudged Kili to one side of the bed and muttered some soft words in Khuzdul which had the younger one chuckling, possibly at Bilbo’s expense. Alright, so maybe this wasn’t so dire, after all, he would just have to wait for Thorin to awaken. “Do you mind if we sleep here? I don’t fancy a walk in the dark just to get back to sweat-soaked beds.”

“Of course, boys, you don’t even need to ask.” Bilbo got up and retrieved some blankets from the foot of Thorin’s bed. He then carefully draped them over the brothers, tucking them in as he would small children. They thanked him quietly in-between yawns and grunts as they settled on the bedding, snuggled up against one another. Bilbo put out the big lamp that was hanging from the tent’s roof, leaving only a single candle to light the surrounding area. “Sleep tight, lads. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t mind going back, actually,” Kili mumbled, his voice smothered by the blankets. “There’s this cute elven healer, I think she’s quite taken with me.”

Bilbo sat down on the edge of Thorin’s bed, watching the young dwarf with an amused look on his face. “Oh really? What has you thinking that?”

“Well, she kept talking to me, she was smiling, she even said I was good-looking, I recall.”

“That hardly qualifies as ‘being taken with someone’, brother mine,” Fili snorted.

“She touched me all over! Even…” Kili’s eyes darted to Thorin’s still form, his voice dropping low as if his words were only meant for Fili’s ears, but Bilbo caught them anyway. “Even under the belt, sometimes. Why would a female do that to a male, if she’s not besotted?”

“Mhm, I don’t know, maybe if the female is, let’s say, a healer, and the male is badly injured or dying, even?”

Kili groaned. “Why do you keep breaking my dreams so?”

“Just wait until Uncle wakes up and hears you talking about frolicking with an elf, he’ll break more than your dreams, believe me.”

The dark-haired dwarf grumbled something under his breath about his arms already being broken, but he nuzzled into his brother’s chest and was soon snoring. Fili chuckled and tucked his chin over Kili’s head, closing his eyes to follow suit, but not before he called for Bilbo softly one last time.

“Yes?” the hobbit said.

“I know Uncle Thorin asked you to stay in Erebor, before all this happened. You are very welcome to stay, of course, but regardless of what happens to Uncle… we understand if you wish to go back to the Shire. We really do.”

“I… I’ll think on it, Fili. I promise.” Bilbo bit his lower lip anxiously; he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. All that mattered to him was Thorin’s welfare, he was quite ashamed to say that little else held any sort of interest to him for the time being. “You should sleep, boy, you need it.”

But Fili was already mingling his own snores with Kili’s louder ones.

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile fondly at the slumbering brothers, and reached out to tug a strand of Kili’s hair out of his mouth and tuck it behind his ear. He was sitting on a stool, between two beds that housed the three dwarves he had come to care the most for. Two of them were fine, and the third one… well, he was alive, and that was something.

The water was definitely not cool enough to be of any use, warm as it was from Thorin’s sweat mingling with it. And it was far too dirty for Bilbo to lather it over the dwarf, this was too unhygienic for his taste. So he just put the rag down and hoped that the night would be cold enough to keep the fever at bay. In a few hours, the sun would rise, and he would be able to fetch fresh water without the fear of getting lost in the dark.

With a self-conscious peek in the direction of Fili and Kili, Bilbo climbed on the other side of Thorin’s body, making himself comfortable on the blanket. He wasn’t about to slip under it this time, he wasn’t sure he could stand the heat. That, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out first-hand just how unclothed Thorin was.

“I’m taking a small nap, alright?” Bilbo whispered, running his fingers through Thorin’s short mane. “You behave. In the morning, I’ll see with the healers if I can give you soup or something, you must be sick of water and honey.”

The dwarf was still warm to the touch, though thankfully not as hot as the previous day.

Still, Bilbo kept a hand on Thorin’s cheek to monitor the fever and he leaned in to press a customary kiss to the King’s temple. “See you in a few hours, and whatever it means, _âzyungel_ yourself, silly dwarf.”

 

* * *

 

 

When Bilbo opened his eyes again, the candle was long gone, and a very young sun was timidly filtering through the tent flaps, leaving the surroundings in semi-darkness. Fili’s and Kili’s snores had toned down to sleep-heavy breathing, indication that the brothers would be waking up soon.

Bilbo yawned and stretched groggily. His fingers slipped from Thorin’s face and the hobbit cursed quietly, snatching his hand up to lay it on the dwarf’s bearded cheek again. As a silent apology, he spent a few moments sleepily stroking circles on the sweat-soaked, cool skin with his thumb.

Wait a minute. _Cool_ skin?

Bilbo pulled himself up on his elbow and reached up to feel Thorin’s forehead. It was very damp, but also devoid of any excessive heat.

 _The fever must have broken at some point in the night! Oh dear Yavanna, thank you, thank you!_ Through his excitement, Bilbo’s heart froze for a second; of course, there was a second reason why Thorin could be so cold, but… it couldn’t be… the dwarf couldn’t just be… gone. Not with his nephews in the room, no! He wouldn’t accept it!

All traces of sleep erasing themselves from his mind, and with a heart threatening to pound right through his ribcage, Bilbo got to his knees and pressed his ear right over Thorin’s heart. The rough gauze that was hugging the King’s chest was scraping his nose and his feet were bent at a very uncomfortable angle, but it was worth it.

For under his ear, a dwarven heart was beating steadily, pumping blood and life through Thorin’s veins.

Relieved out of his mind, Bilbo sighed happily and lied back on his side. He felt around under the blanket for Thorin’s hand, bringing it to his lips for a heartfelt kiss to the palm. He wasn’t ready to see him die. He would _never_ be ready to see him die, ever, not after everything they had been through side by side. There had been so much trust, so many things shared that Bilbo felt that a part of him would die along with Thorin.

“Don’t scare me like that, stupid dwarf,” Bilbo chuckled, squeezing the larger hand affectionately.

“Sorry.”

Bilbo gasped at the weak word that was little more than half a whisper. Was he starting to hear things? Maybe he had spent too much time cooped up in here, focusing on one single thing? Maybe he had just imagined Thorin speaking to him…

His hazel eyes travelled up the King’s face and a peculiar mixture of joy and dread pooled in his stomach when he spotted something vital he had overlooked minutes before.

Two half-lidded cobalt eyes staring right at him.

Bilbo was torn between his urge to shout out his joy for all Middle Earth to hear, and his mortification at being caught so close to Thorin’s body, the large hand still tightly held between both of his. But Thorin’s blue eyes were soft and peaceful, and Bilbo didn’t fight the broad smile that threatened to split his whole face open.

“Thorin!” he exclaimed, quietly for Fili and Kili’s sake. “You are awake! You have no idea how, how…” A small, rogue tear escaped the corner of his eye, but for the first time in days, the trail it left down his cheek was one of delight. “Oh, dear gods, I have no words… p-please forgive me…”

Bilbo could have slapped himself. He had waited for day for Thorin to wake, thinking carefully over what he would tell him, and how the dwarf would react. And here he was, sniffling like a hobbitling after his first bump. What must the dwarven King be thinking of him? _Well, certainly not worse than he did before, at any rate._

The hobbit almost jumped right off the bed when a large, slightly trembling hand cupped his cheek and a broad thumb wiped away the lone tear. Bilbo’s watery eyes met Thorin’s hazed gaze and what we found there would have knocked him right off his feet, if he hadn’t been lying down. It was guilt, clear as moonlight on a cloudless night, and it left Bilbo speechless. Of all the things he had expected Thorin to show, guilt and shame weren’t even on the list.

And yet the dwarf was looking at him as if the world was going to crumble, and it was his fault.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin rasped out again, his thumb still stroking the side of Bilbo’s head. There was a desperate edge to his voice, as if he had waited for so long to apologize that he feared he wouldn’t have another chance. And if the hobbit didn’t know Thorin so well, he could have sworn there were unshed tears in those dark blue eyes. “I’m sorry, I… I said those things… I didn’t mean… then I almost… I’m sorry.”

“Shh shh,” Bilbo soothed as the King’s breathing quickened to a worrying pace. “I know. You were not yourself, it was the gold-fever talking. I forgive you.” He tried to sound confident as he said those words, but truth was, he was overjoyed. Maybe there was some hope that his friendship with Thorin could be mended, after all. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“But… I could have killed you… I hurt you…”

“Yes, well, I admit you had me quite confused for a while,” Bilbo admitted as he dragged another fur up Thorin’s body. Now that the fever was gone, there was no need for the dwarf to shiver helplessly. “But I knew you would come around. After all, we are friends, right? I braided your hair and you cared for my feet, I think we are a little above all of this ‘I’ll throw you down the mountain’ business, don’t you?”

Bilbo’s weak attempt at a joke succeeded, however, and a strained smile pulled at Thorin’s lips. “Hobbits,” he just said, his hand leaving Bilbo’s cheek – to Bilbo’s disappointment – and coming down to rest atop the hobbit’s hand. Then a shadow passed over the wounded King’s features. “Fili and Kili?”

Bilbo smiled. “Turn your head to the other side.”

Thorin painstakingly complied and smiled softly as his eyes fell on his sleeping nephews snuggled together on the other bedding. Kili would wake up to a mouthful of his brother’s hair, and Fili’s head bandage was coming a bit loose. Quite an endearing sight, and a relief for an uncle’s heart, Bilbo wagered.

“They had it a bit rough, but they are safe now,” he filled in as Thorin turned his head to him once more. It surprised the hobbit, though not really in a bad way, when the large hand returned to the side of his head and slid down to his nape. “They… they were worried about you. I was, too, I mean I am still worried about you.”

“I already told you,” Thorin muttered, his fingers messily stroking the back of Bilbo’s head, “dwarves are hard to break.”

“I know, I saw your nephews going from half-dead to up and walking in the courses of a single day, but I also saw your innards not so long ago,” Bilbo snorted, not resisting the urge to tilt his head to allow free access to the back of his neck. “While I am ready to believe dwarves are harder than stone on the outside, let me tell you, you are very soft and squishy on the inside.”

“Am I now?”

“Yes. Then there was that fever, I swear Thorin, it felt like you were on fire. You scared me half to death.”

“Mhm mh.”

“You were delirious too,” Bilbo mumbled as he absently combed damp strands out of Thorin’s forehead, now certain that the dwarf wouldn’t recoil under his touch. “You called out, for Fili and Kili, for Smaug, even for me sometimes.”

“I did?”

“Yes, and then you started saying things I don’t understand in Khuzdul. Fili and Kili heard too, but they wouldn’t tell me what it meant, I think it was something like _azoun_...” The hand at his nape, though a bit hesitant, was starting to massage flesh with a little more confidence. Bilbo was ready to stretch and mewl, which would be highly inappropriate, and he knew he was already babbling but running his mouth seemed like the only acceptable option. “Or maybe it was _azioungul_ … no it was something- _gel_ , I remember now, it-”

Bilbo’s lips found themselves unable to finish his sentence as they were pressed against Thorin’s soft, warm mouth.

Unbeknownst to him, the hand at his nape had been slowly inching his face down and closer to the dwarf’s as he babbled, and it was now gently kneading the back of his skull. Bilbo’s entire body tensed as Thorin’s beard slightly scratched his chin and the smell of sweat invaded his nostrils. But he couldn’t find it in himself to pull away. Why, he wasn’t sure; it was really hard to think when your brain felt like jelly. The only thing he could do, apparently, was to indulge.

Bilbo gave Thorin a tentative, almost shy brush of lips in return, black whiskers tickling his nose. The dwarf’s hum of approval emboldened him and he covered Thorin’s lips with a bit more pressure, though keeping it gentle enough that he wouldn’t hurt him. For a moment all rational thoughts fled his mind, and his customary modesty was shoved in a drawer at the back of his head to be dealt with later.

But soon Thorin was out of breath and he carefully broke the kiss, choosing instead to nuzzle Bilbo’s cheek. It felt wonderful, but the hobbit’s smile was a bit wavering, as Bilbo was unsure of this new development and what it meant as to his relationship with the dwarf.

Thorin seemed to pick up on this; he stopped his ministrations and looked up. “Bilbo?” he asked softly, with hesitation, as if he were afraid of the hobbit’s reaction.

But Bilbo only smiled down at him; these things could wait. There were more important matters at hand; Thorin’s recovery, for example, for waking up didn’t mean he was completely out of harm’s way. They would have time to talk later.

“I told you not to strain yourself,” he chided good-naturedly, leaning on his elbow to take off some of his weight and free a hand to cup Thorin’s cheek. “You should get some rest.”

Reassured that his actions hadn’t angered his hobbit, at least, the dwarf sighed and gave a pale smile of his own. The hand that was still playing at Bilbo’s neck tugged gently. “Stay with me?”

“Of course.”

Bilbo lied down completely on his side and didn’t fight when Thorin pulled him close so his cheek was resting on one broad shoulder. He let the dwarf entwine their fingers and smiled when he felt a sloppy kiss being pressed into his curls. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to sit back and think about what was happening to him; it was far more pleasant to just accept it. And he would enjoy it while it lasted.

“About that word you said while you were unconscious,” he said quietly as he nuzzled into Thorin’s shoulder.

“What of it?” the dwarf rumbled, tucking his chin over Bilbo’s head, and it was silly, really, the way the hobbit shuddered at the deep voice.

“I… I think I figured it out.”

“Interesting.” Thorin squirmed around a little, probably to find a more comfortable position on the bedding, but also to wrap his right arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and tug him close to his side. Although there were blankets separating them, Bilbo could feel the heat from the body next to his. He was relieved this time that a fever was not to blame.

The next minutes were spent in silence, and Bilbo found himself lulled into a light doze by Thorin’s steady breathing. Seconds before he actually closed his eyes for a nap, the dwarf spoke, his own voice tainted with sleep.

“Bilbo?”

“Mhm?”

“May I ask a question?”

“I suppose so.”

“Why am I naked?”

Ah. So that elf _had_ taken some liberties after all.

“Oh, that… It’s nothing to worry about, perfectly normal. And don’t worry, nobody saw you, if that is what you are concerned over.”

“You mean you did this?”

“What do- No! Of course not, no! I didn’t do anything, it was the elves!”

“… what?”

Oops. Maybe that wasn’t the smartest thing to say to a dwarf, especially if that dwarf was Thorin Oakenshield. “I-I can explain everything, I swear Thorin. But please, please get some rest? When you’ve had a few hours of sleep and a decent meal in you, I’ll explain everything that happened from the beginning, alright?”

Thorin growled drowsily but nodded against Bilbo’s head and his body relaxed. The hobbit allowed a smile to grace his lips and snuggled further into the blankets and the dwarf’s side.

There would be time tomorrow, and the day after that. After all, they had won.  

And if Thorin muttered before he fell asleep that next time, he would like Bilbo to protect his virtue from filthy elves and their wandering hands, well, no one could fault the hobbit for laughing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul dictionary:  
> âzyungel: love of all loves
> 
> And that's all, folks! I would like to thank you all for reading and offering advice, English isn't my native language so any tip is more than welcome!
> 
> This fic will be part of a series, and its sequel should arrive shortly... I hope!


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